416D 


THE    SHADOW 


^"*    '*»     m   •«  •» 


ON    REACHING    THAT   WINDY    QUARTER    OF    THE    SHIP    HE 
MARCHED   STRAIGHT   UP   TO   THE   WOMAN. 

[See  page  24. 


THE    SHADOW 


A     STORT    OF     THE 
EVOLUTION  OF  A  SOUL 


By 

HAROLD   BEGBIE 

Author  of  "Twice-Born  Men" 


NEW  YORK    CHICAGO    TORONTO 

Fleming    H.    Revell    Company 

LONDON    AND      EDINBURGH 


CONTENTS 


PACK 

CHAPTER   I. 
A  SUGGESTION  OF  MYSTERY 13 

CHAPTER   II. 

HAGAR  AND  ISHMAEL          ..         ..        ..         ..         ..      36 

CHAPTER   III. 
THE  WELCOME          42 

CHAPTER   IV. 
POOR  RELATIONS       53 

CHAPTER  V. 
MR.  AND  MRS.  GRINDLEY 68 

CHAPTER  VI. 
WE  MUST  SUFFER ..      81 

CHAPTER  VII. 
AN  INVASION  OF  GLEVERING         97 


2228483 


Contents 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
A  SUDDEN  CHANGE 115 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  NEW  PHASE  OF  EXISTENCE 131 

CHAPTER   X. 

STRUGGLE  AND  INTERRUPTION      ..         ..         ..         ..     150 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  NEW  LIFE          167 

CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  METHOD  OF  AUGUSTUS  NUTTLE 179 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
MARY  DISINHERITS  HER  SON       ..         ..         ..         ..     198 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
UNREST 210 

CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  HARMLESS  DECEPTION          ..         ..         ..        ..     229 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  TRIAL  OF  STRENGTH 248 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

ALARM 262 

8 


Contents 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  RISK        278 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  BLOW       294 

CHAPTER  XX. 
COMPANIONS  IN  GRIEF        309 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  FALL  OF  THE  DARK    ..         ..         ..         ..         ..     326 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
DISCEDITE  MALEDICTI        348 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  OUTLAW ..     362 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  INVISIBLE  INFLUENCE 380 

CHAPTER   XXV. 
THE  SISTERS 400 

CHAPTER   XXVI. 
CHRISTOPHER  SPEAKS          415 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 
A  SUDDEN  TEMPTATION 432 


Contents 


CHAPTER  XXVI 1 1. 
THE  LIGHT  RETURNS          452 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
AT  THE  BEACON        465 

CHAPTER   XXX 
WHEN  HE  WAS  YET  A  GREAT  WAY  OFF         ..        ..     485 


TO 


THE    SHADOW 

"THIS     LEARNED     I     FROM    THE     SHADOW    OF    A    TREE** 

CHAPTER   I. 
A  SUGGESTION   OF    MYSTERY 

ON  board  a  steamer  bound  from  Quebec  to  Liver- 
pool, some  twenty  odd  years  ago,  there  was  an 
individual  who  attracted  considerable  attention 
among  the  rest  of  the  passengers,  for  reasons  which 
we  shall  make  haste  to  explain. 

This  gentleman,  who  was  perhaps  five  or  six-and- 
forty  years  of  age,  described  himself  on  his  letter- 
paper  in  the  following  manner  : — 

MR.  MAURITIUS  SMITH 
Merchant,  Planter,  and  Collector 

of  Jungle  Produce, 
Hotel  and  General  Store  Proprietor, 
Editor,  Mine  Owner,  Prospector,  Contractor, 
and  Explorer. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  paper,  which  was 
quarto  size  and  of  thin  foreign  material,  figured  half-a- 
dozen  addresses  scattered  over  the  Malay  States,  with 
the  addition  in  brackets,  "  European  Agents,  Grindley 
&  Son,  St.  Mary  Axe,  London,  E.G." 

13 


In  appearance  Mr.  Mauritius  Smith,  whose  face 
was  ploughed  up  with  wrinkles,  was  a  thin,  red-haired, 
bone-staring,  loose-jointed  individual,  with  protuberant 
eyes,  and  an  immense  nose  which  suggested  that  he 
hunted  for  tin-mines  and  jungle  produce  in  the  same 
way  that  a  hound  follows  a  fox.  This  impression  was 
heightened  by  the  fact  that  he  walked  with  bent 
knees,  the  neck  outthrust,  the  head  craned  forward, 
the  notable  nose  pointing  downwards  and,  as  it  were, 
sniffing  forward,  while  the  combed  and  parted  mous- 
taches beneath  bristled  with  a  wirelike  energy.  And 
yet  in  spite  of  this  alert  and  hunting  expression  there 
was  some  generous  quality  of  good  nature  in  the 
Collector's  harrowed  face  which  advertised  a  cheerful, 
equable,  and  even  humorous  disposition.  He  had 
a  smile  which  converted  all  his  red  wrinkles  into 
beams  of  sunlight. 

Accompanied  by  his  wife,  who  was  short,  coffee- 
coloured,  and  energetic,  with  twinkling  brown  eyes 
deep  set  under  level  brows,  Mr.  Mauritius  Smith 
walked  round  and  round  the  upper  deck,  wearing 
a  greenish  overcoat  with  collar  and  cuffs  of  grey  fur, 
blue  flannel  trousers,  canvas  shoes,  and  a  remarkable 
Andalusian-looking  hat  of  hard  black  felt,  low  and 
flat  in  the  crown,  firm  and  flat  and  broad  in  the 
brim,  with  a  "guard"  fastened  at  the  back  and 
attached  to  a  buttonhole  of  his  inner  coat. 

Undoubtedly  Monsieur  et  Madame  were  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  each  other.  They  talked  with 
animation,  glanced  at  each  other  with  affection,  laughed 
together,  gave  each  other's  arms  little  hugs  and  presses, 
and  appeared  to  possess  with  an  inexhaustible  loco- 

14 


A  Suggestion  of  Mystery 

motor  energy  topics  of  conversation  equally  unfailing. 
No  sooner  had  the  steamer  left  the  wharf  than  Mrs. 
Mauritius  Smith,  who  wore  a  thick  tartan  cloak  and 
a  black  mantilla,  slipped  a  hand  through  her  husband's 
arm,  and  then,  oblivionising  the  beautiful  spectacle  of 
Quebec  fading  into  the  west,  the  banks  of  the  St. 
Lawrence  tremulous  against  soft  skies,  and  even  the 
entertaining  pageant  of  their  fellow-passengers,  the 
twain  set  off  on  a  pacing  peregrination  of  the  decks 
in  delightful  conversation,  as  though  they  had  only 
just  met  after  a  long  separation.  There  was  a  little 
hop  in  their  steps,  and  they  walked  tucked  up  together 
in  the  closest  and  most  affectionate  understanding. 

But  it  was  neither  his  appearance  nor  his  devotion 
to  his  wife  which  made  Mr.  Mauritius  Smith  the 
most  remarked  man  on  this  Atlantic  liner  steaming 
eastward.  He  was  afflicted. 

There  are  physical  afflictions  which  touch  the  most 
indifferent  heart;  there  are  others  which  make  it 
difficult  for  the  gravest  to  hide  a  smile.  "What  a 
piece  of  work  is  man,"  that  some  trivial  defect  in 
the  nerves,  some  intangible  taint  in  the  blood,  can 
transform  the  miracle  of  his  body — "in  form  and 
moving  how  express  and  admirable,  in  action  how 
like  an  angel" — into  a  mere  buffoonery.  Disease 
had  done  for  Mr.  Mauritius  Smith  what  the  Com- 
prachicos  had  done  for  L'homme  qui  rit,  that  is  to 
say,  he  was  a  cause  of  wit  in  other  men.  The  control 
of  his  nerves  was  irregular. 

Every  now  and  then  the  collector  of  jungle  produce 
would  be  overtaken  with  a  shaking  fit,  which  not 
only  forced  his  limbs  to  shoot  out  suddenly  with  a 

15 


The  Shadow 

frantic  eccentricity,  but  which  converted  his  genial 
and  good-tempered  face  into  a  mask  fit  for  a  panto- 
mime. Nor  was  the  contortion  of  face  and  body 
the  extremity  of  his  trouble,  for  at  every  few  minutes 
noises  of  an  extraordinary  and  startling  nature  would 
spring  involuntarily  from  his  lips.  At  one  moment  it 
seemed  that  he  was  imitating  the  sound  of  sawing 
wood  and  at  the  next  that  he  was  drawing  innumer- 
able corks.  It  was  characteristic  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Smith  that  these  grimaces  and  ventriloquisings  did 
not  interrupt  their  conversation.  Sometimes  when 
he  darted  forward  with  a  little  twitching  run  he 
would  say  "  motor  "  ;  and  sometimes  when  he  clicked, 
gobbled,  and  croaked  he  would  say  "  vocal."  It 
appeared  to  afford  him  an  infinite  amusement  to 
ticket  his  eccentricities  and  define  his  infirmity. 

It  may  be  imagined  that  these  unusual  mannerisms 
would  soon  create  interest  on  board  a  ship.  Boys 
quickly  discovered  the  attraction  of  Mr.  Smith  and 
would  overtake  him,  look  back  at  him,  waylay  him 
round  corners,  and  keep  an  eye  on  him  at  meals. 
Moreover,  trouble  had  arisen  on  the  second  day  of 
the  voyage.  It  chanced  that  the  captain — a  little 
square-shouldered,  bombastic  man — going  his  round 
of  the  ship,  came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Mauritius 
Smith  just  as  that  unfortunate  passenger,  issuing  from 
the  bath-room,  was  overtaken  by  one  of  his  spasmodic 
agitations.  The  poor  gentleman — so  one  might  have 
thought — made  a  ferocious  rush  at  the  great  officer, 
as  though  to  smite  him  with  sponge  and  flannel,  and 
even  to  assault  him  violently  with  his  slippered  foot, 
making  at  the  same  time  a  grimace  which  clearly 

16 


A  Suggestion  of  Mystery 

argued  a  desire  to  insult  authority.  The  captain, 
being  a  man  of  action,  somewhat  peppery  in  temper, 
did  not  draw  back  and  await  explanations,  but  instantly 
put  himself  into  a  fighting  posture,  and  would  surely 
have  taken  the  aggressive  had  not  Mr.  Smith  righted 
himself  at  that  instant  and  exclaimed,  "  Nature,  not 
me,  captain  ;  imperious  necessity ! "  and  passed  on 
with  a  genial  smile.  This  incident,  through  the  media 
of  stewards,  was  the  talk  of  the  ship  by  breakfast- 
time. 

Later  on  that  same  day,  as  Mr.  Smith  was  leaving 
the  deck  to  make  his  way  to  his  cabin,  a  very  old 
lady,  nervous  of  the  sea,  frightened  of  fellow-passengers, 
and  suspicious  of  stewards,  and  who  had  hitherto  kept 
to  her  cabin,  happened  at  that  very  moment  to  be 
gathering  up  her  skirt  preparatory  to  stepping  on 
deck.  They  encountered  each  other  in  the  doorway, 
and  the  Collector,  recovering  himself  from  nearly  over- 
turning the  lady,  lost  control  of  his  muscles,  and 
made  a  terrible  grimace  accompanied  by  such  violent 
noises  and  agitations  of  his  limbs  that  the  old  lady 
cried  out  in  a  panic  of  distress,  "  Take  him  away ! 
take  him  away!"  and  declared  to  the  steward  who 
rushed  to  her  assistance  that  she  had  nearly  been 
trampled  to  death  by  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde. 

Custom  had  staled  for  the  sufferer  the  inconvenience 
of  his  affliction.  He  ignored  it  with  his  wife  and 
treated  it  as  a  jest  among  strangers.  If  he  entered 
the  death-like  silence  of  the  reading-room  and  suddenly 
fired  off  a  succession  of  noises,  causing  people  to  jump 
in  their  seats,  he  would  make  a  propitiatory  bow  and 
announce  with  an  appeasing  smile,  "  Merely  the  clock- 

17  C 


The  Shadow 

work."  Sometimes  he  would  go  into  the  smoking- 
room  before  retiring  for  the  night,  and  would  stand 
behind  the  card  players  watching  the  game,  or  sit 
beside  the  chess  players  contemplating  the  moves, 
and  if  on  these  occasions  he  was  so  overcome  by 
his  affliction  as  to  startle  and  interrupt  the  players, 
he  would  murmur  apologetically,  "  Machinery,  gentle- 
men ;  defect  of  ancient  standing  ;  painless  and  harm- 
less ;  pray  continue."  Occasionally  during  meals  his 
involuntary  jerkings  would  send  a  tumbler  of  water 
across  the  table,  or  a  spoonful  of  soup  into  the  vicinity 
of  a  watchful  and  apprehensive  neighbour,  where- 
upon Mr.  Mauritius  Smitn.  would  smile  amiably  and 
explain  that  the  accident  was  caused  by  nothing 
serious,  merely  "  irregular  explosions  of  nervous 
energy."  There  was,  in  short,  as  perfect  an  under- 
standing and  as  cheerful  a  good  humour  between 
Mr.  Smith  and  his  infirmity  as  existed  between  that 
gentleman  and  his  chief  blessing,  to  wit,  Mrs.  Smith. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  of  the  voyage, 
when  the  bows  of  the  ship  were  lifting  ominously 
and  a  pearl-like  greyness  of  the  sky  contrasted  sharply 
with  the  black-blue  mass  of  heaving  ocean,  when 
the  air  was  deadly  cold,  the  wind  shrill  in  the  rigging, 
the  decks  and  rails  and  chairs  saturated  with  a  salt 
dampness — on  this  miserable  afternoon,  when  the 
majority  of  passengers  were  either  lying  down  or 
amusing  themselves  in  the  saloon,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mauritius  Smith,  staggering  round  the  bow  end  of  the 
upper  deck  and  pausing  at  the  lee  quarter  to  fetch 
their  breath,  happened  to  look  down  into  the  waist 
of  the  ship. 

18 


A  Suggestion  of  Mystery 

A  number  of  sad-looking  steerage  passengers  were 
seated  on  the  booby  hatches  with  their  backs  against 
the  derricks  ;  the  women  had  shawls  over  their  heads, 
the  men  had  the  collars  of  their  coats  turned  up 
about  their  ears ;  a  more  desolate  and  depressed 
group  of  humanity  could  scarcely  be  imagined.  In 
the  entrance  to  the  cabins  stood  a  knot  of  people 
whose  white  faces  peering  up  at  the  bridge  presented 
a  ghost-like  effect  against  the  darkness  of  the  interior. 

A  couple  of  dirty-looking  seamen,  with  cotton-waste 
in  their  hands,  leaned  against  the  weather  bulwark. 
Beyond  this  scene  of  gloom  and  wretchedness,  high 
up  on  the  lifting  deck  of  the  fo'c'sle  head,  sat  a 
beautiful  woman  watching  a  little  boy  who  was  drawing 
in  a  book  which  rested  on  her  lap. 

The  loneliness  of  their  situation,  the  picturesque 
effect  of  their  attitude,  would  by  themselves,  on  such 
a  bitter  day,  have  attracted  attention.  But  Mrs. 
Mauritius  Smith,  whose  little  eyes  pierced  a  great 
deal  further  than  the  staring  orbs  of  her  husband, 
detected  in  the  woman  and  child  attractiveness  of 
another  kind.  The  woman  was  young,  graceful,  and 
refined ;  when  she  bent  down  to  watch  the  boy's 
drawing  there  was  something  singularly  sweet  and 
affectionate  in  the  outline  of  her  body — the  whole 
attitude  expressed  love  and  tenderness — but  when 
she  raised  her  head  and  gazed  for  a  moment  at 
the  sea  there  was  so  much  tragedy  and  suffering 
in  the  young  face  that  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith,  who 
was  swift  in  her  intuitions,  jerked  her  husband's  arm 
and  exclaimed  energetically,  "  Look  at  that  beautiful 
young  creature !  there's  some  romance  about  her." 

19  C  2 


The  Shadow 

This- was  the  attraction  instantly  perceived  by  the 
Collector's  wife,  the  attraction  of  mystery. 

Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  was  not  the  only  person  on 
board  the  liner  who  had  experienced  a  conviction 
that  some  mystery  attached  to  the  young  mother  in 
the  steerage.  Several  passengers  parading  the  decks 
had  stopped  to  look  at  her ;  they  had  noticed  how 
she  kept  herself  aloof  from  other  people,  how  noble 
was  her  bearing,  how  dignified  her  appearance  ;  on 
one  occasion  they  had  also  observed  how  the  little 
boy  had  glanced  into  his  mother's  face  and  then 
turned  his  back  on  the  scene,  when  a  generous  pas- 
senger of  the  upper  deck  had  scattered  oranges  and 
chocolates  among  the  children  in  the  waist.  The 
captain  behind  his  storm-sheet  on  the  bridge  had 
turned  his  glasses  upon  the  interesting  woman  more 
than  once  ;  he  had  discussed  her  with  the  chief  officer, 
and  had  even  sent  to  inquire  her  name  and  particulars. 
"  Mauritius,  what  is  she  doing  in  the  steerage  ?  " 
demanded  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  She  is  doing,  Annabel,  what  poverty  manages 
to  do  in  situations  even  more  painful  and  far  less 
salubrious,  she  is  existing.  You  cannot  possibly 
praise  her  for  that  I  defy  you.  It  is  an  achieve- 
ment common  to  the  race.  To  exist — how  wonderful ! " 

"  There  is  certainly  some  romance  about  her." 

"  She  is  young,"  said  Mauritius ;  "  good.  She 
is  handsome ;  very  good.  She  is  a  mother ;  ex- 
cellent. She  seems  honest ;  surprising.  Those  are 
the  materials.  Pet,  oblige  me  by  constructing  your 
romance." 

The  boy  forced  the  pencil  into  the  woman's  hand, 
20 


A  Suggestion  of  Mystery 

and  she  bent  down  to  finish  his  drawing.    The  attitude 
was  charming. 

"  I  don't  go  so  far  as  to  say  she  is  a  lady,"  said 
Mrs.  Mauritius. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  exclaimed  Mauritius,  with  expostula- 
tion. "  Why  stick  at  anything  ?  Consider  your 
reputation." 

Mrs.  Smith  jerked  his  arm,  saying,  "  Now  take  a 
good  look  at  her,  Mauritius.  You  are  a  judge  of 
people.  Is  there  not — I  ask  you — something  about 
that  beautiful  young  creature  which  is  uncommon 
and  remarkable  ? " 

The  collector  of  jungle  produce  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
the  woman  on  the  fo'c'sle  head.  Just  as  he  was 
about  to  dismiss  the  romantic  surmisings  of  his  wife, 
the  object  of  his  gaze  rose  from  her  seat,  and  standing 
up  with  an  arm  thrown  over  the  shoulder  of  her  son, 
surveyed  the  ocean  with  so  mournful  and  so  tragic  an 
air  of  dejection  that  he  was  obliged  to  revise  his  ideas. 

"  Why,  look  at  her,  Mauritius ! "  exclaimed  the 
kind-hearted  Annabel.  "  If  ever  I  saw  sorrow,  there 
it  stands.  She's  grief  in  stone.  She's  a  statue.  Oh, 
we  must  do  something  for  that  poor  young  thing. 
What  great  eyes  !  What  a  fine  brow !  And  look 
at  the  mouth — the  suffering  there !  She  is  a  lady — 
I  can  see  she  is.  And  look  at  the  child — a  young 
aristocrat,  every  inch  of  him.  I  tell  you,  I'm  perfectly 
certain  there's  some  romance  about  her." 

The  bows  rose  and  fell,  with  increasing  discomfort 
to  nervous  passengers ;  occasionally  the  ship  rolled. 
Darkness  deepened  in  the  sea  and  greyness  in  the 
sky.  Every  moment  the  air  grew  colder. 

21 


The  Shadow 

On  the  fo'c'sle  head  the  figure  of  the  watching 
woman  began  to  lose  the  sharpness  of  its  outline. 
With  this  merging  into  the  greyness  of  twilight,  the 
sense  of  her  desolation  became  more  impressive.  She 
might  have  inspired  a  superstitious  passenger  with 
alarm,  so  dejected,  so  despairful,  and  so  ominous 
was  her  posture. 

"  Annabel,"  said  Mauritius,  "  you  are  right.  That 
lady  is  in  trouble." 

"  And  therefore,  my  dear,  you  will  go  and  see  what 
you  can  do.  Now  be  quick  before  it  gets  too  dark, 
and  come  back  and  tell  me  all  about  it" 

"A  moment's  reflection,"  exclaimed  the  Malayan 
editor.  "  To  descend  is  ofttimes  to  offend.  First-class 
does  not  wear  the  garb  of  a  ministering  angel  in  the 
eyes  of  third-class ;  it  is  robed  in  the  fine  raiment  of 
patronage.  Offensive,  Annabel.  Your  dark  lady  on 
the  fo'c'sle  head  would  resent  patronage.  Are  you 
with  me,  love  ? " 

Mrs.  Smith  turned  and  rested  her  little  twinkling 
eyes  upon  the  Collector.  "  Mauritius,"  she  said 
tenderly,  "  you  have  a  way  with  you — you  know  you 
have,  you  can't  deny  it." 

"Angel,  if  you  think  so "  He  prepared  to 

depart  on  his  mission. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Annabel,  with  suddenness, 
and  crying  over  her  shoulder,  "  I  won't  keep  you  a 
minute,"  she  hurried  down  the  deck  at  a  run.  Mauri- 
tius followed  at  a  slower  pace,  feasting  his  eyes  with 
admiration  upon  the  quite  ungraceful  figure  of  his  wife. 

"  What  a  heart ! "  he  exclaimed. 

When  Mrs.  Smith  returned  she  brought  with  her  a 
22 


A  Suggestion  of  Mystery 

wicker-work  bottle  of  eau-de-cologne.  "  The  corkscrew 
is  at  the  side,"  she  said,  panting  for  want  of  breath. 
"  Tell  her  it's  from  your  wife,  with  her  kind  regards ; 
and,  Mauritius,  be  sure  and  find  out  all  about  her." 

She  returned  to  her  former  situation  and  waited 
for  events. 

The  people  in  the  waist  had  disappeared.  The 
deck  was  sodden  with  sea  water.  The  monotonous 
sound  of  the  ship's  engines  was  broken  every  now  and 
then  by  a  sharp  hiss  and  rattle  as  a  spout  of  water 
shot  up  at  the  bows  and  fell  with  a  drench  across  the 
deck.  The  mast-head  light  cast  a  pale  radiance  on 
the  deserted  scene.  The  roll  of  the  liner  had  that 
helpless,  hopeless,  and  aimless  sensation  which  is  so 
different  from  the  active  and  as  it  were  consciously 
directed  energy  of  the  rise  and  dip.  Over  the  dark 
face  of  the  melancholy  waters  hovered  an  embittered 
and  weary  pessimism,  as  though  Time  had  made 
even  the  ocean  decadent ;  the  noise  of  the  monster 
was  deep  and  muttering,  fretted  at  quick  intervals 
by  a  sharp  and  seething  hiss  which  was  full  of 
malevolence.  In  the  wind  there  was  a  cry  keen  and 
insistent. 

In  spite  of  the  cheerless  scene  the  woman  held  her 
forlorn  and  exposed  position  in  the  bows.  Her  head 
was  bare,  and  over  her  shoulders  she  wore  a  dark  and 
hooded  cloak,  with  which  she  covered  the  boy  at  her 
side.  She  appeared  to  be  some  twenty-seven  years 
of  age.  She  was  above  the  medium  height,  and 
without  rigidity  held  herself  with  a  dignity  of  carriage 
which  enhanced  the  noble  lines  of  her  figure.  She 
was  dark-eyed  •  her  hair  a  deep  brown  ;  the  tone 

23 


The  Shadow 

of  her  skin  that  of  a  brunette  ;  the  profile  was  rather 
handsome  than  beautiful  ;  the  indescribable  sense  of 
sorrow  which  breathed  in  her  expression  destroyed 
the  texture  of  softness  which  is  perhaps  necessary 
to  beauty,  but  the  hidden  courage  which  supported 
and  endured  the  sorrow  gave  majesty  to  a  face  which 
otherwise  might  perhaps  have  repelled  certain  minds 
by  the  gloom  of  its  suffering. 

Mrs.  Smith  saw  her  husband  cross  the  waist,  and 
watched  him  with  anxious  eyes  as  he  mounted  the 
ladder  to  the  fo'c'sle  head.  On  reaching  that  windy 
quarter  of  the  ship  he  marched  straight  up  to  the 
woman  and,  touching  the  brim  of  his  hat,  making 
a  bow,  and  stamping  his  feet  for  warmth,  began  to 
address  her.  Unfortunately  he  was  almost  immedi- 
ately overtaken  by  "  an  irregular  explosion  of  nervous 
energy,"  which  caused  the  little  boy,  who  had  emerged 
from  the  cloak  at  his  first  approach,  to  start  back 
and  press  close  to  his  mother.  The  woman,  however, 
maintained  her  attitude  and  showed  no  surprise. 
The  darkness  and  the  cold  increased.  A  bugle 
sounded.  Mrs.  Smith  began  to  think  about  dressing 
for  dinner. 

She  waited,  however,  till  Mauritius  had  given  the 
woman  the  bottle  of  eau-de-cologne  and  had  seen 
him  on  easy  terms  with  the  boy.  Then,  hoping  that 
he  would  soon  have  something  to  tell  her,  this  good 
little  Mrs.  Smith  drew  her  cloak  close  about  her 
rotund  figure  and  hurried  down  the  deck  to  her  cabin. 

She  had  put  out  the  evening  clothes  of  her  husband, 
turned  his  silk  socks  and  selected  his  white  tie,  and 
was  sitting  waiting  for  him  to  fasten  the  back  of  her 

24 


A  Suggestion  of  Mystery 

dress,  when  he  rapped  sharply  on  the  door  and  entered 
in  a  hurry. 

"  I  have  three  minutes,  Birdie,"  he  exclaimed,  taking 
off  his  hat  and  coat,  "  in  which  to  play  lady's  maid 
to  you  and  valet  to  myself."  He  bent  over  intricate 
hooks  and  eyes  hidden  in  the  tucks  and  entangled  by 
lace.  "  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the  interesting  lady 
at  dinner,"  he  continued,  fastening  his  wife's  dress, 
"  and  for  the  present  you  must  be  content  with  meagre 
details.  She  is  French ;  she  is  a  widow ;  and  her 
brother-in-law  is  no  less  a  man  than  Sir  Matthew 
Grafton  of  Glevering.  Congratulate  me  ;  the  dress 
is  fastened." 

"  Did  I  not  say  she  was  a  lady  ?  Did  I  not  say 
there  was  something  mysterious  about  her  ? " 

"  You  did.  You  hesitated  on  the  lady,  but  you 
plunged  on  the  mystery.  Yes,  you  were  right,  as 
you  always  are  right.  Angel,  I  rejoice  that  this  poor 
lady  has  powerful  and  rich  relations,  not  merely 
because  it  proves  that  you  were  right  about  her,  but 
because  it  will  save  you  from  insisting  that  we  should 
adopt  widow  and  child  and  make  ourselves  responsible 
for  their  future.  And  now,  by  your  leave,  I  will  get 
ready  for  dinner." 

Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  asked  herself  as  she  left  the 
state-room  why  these  rich  and  powerful  relations 
allowed  the  poor  lady  to  travel  in  the  steerage. 
"There  is  some  mystery,"  she  told  herself,  as  she 
waited  for  her  husband  ;  "  we  must  ce-rtainly  do  some- 
thing to  help  the  poor  creature." 


The  Shadow 


CHAPTER   II. 
HAGAR  AND   ISHMAEL 

THE  woman  on   the  fo'c'sle  head  was  going   into 
exile.      To   her   Canada   was   not   an    adopted 
country   but   a   motherland.      She   had    known 
no  other.     The  ocean  was  something  she  had  never 
seen   before ;   England  was  a  country  of  which   she 
was   entirely  ignorant.     Mother  and   son  were   emi- 
grants from  the  New  World  to  the  Old  World. 

o 

The  tragedy  of  exile  was  deepened  in  their  case 
by  the  humiliation  of  destitution.  They  were  beggars. 

Mr.  Mauritius  Smith,  with  all  his  tact,  had  learned 
only  the  outline  of  Mrs.  Grafton's  story.  She  had 
told  him  that  her  husband  was  dead  and  that  she 
was  going  to  England  to  the  house  of  her  brother- 
in-law.  A  few  questions  had  elicited  the  information 
that  this  brother-in-law,  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
was  Sir  Matthew  Grafton  of  Glevering,  in  Gloucester- 
shire. 

This  outline  of  the  widow's  story  may  be  filled  in 
from  the  following  narrative  : — 

Nine  years  before  our  history,  begins  Richard 
Grafton,  a  handsome  and  impetuous  man  of  twenty- 
six,  had  arrived  in  Canada  with  two  thousand  pounds 

26 


Hagar  and   Ishmael 

of  capital  and  innumerable  letters  of  introduction. 
He  was  the  youngest  brother  of  Sir  Matthew 
Grafton,  and  his  emigration  was  imposed  upon  him  by 
the  baronet  after  years  of  ruinous  'riot  and  disgraceful 
dissipation.  Sir  Matthew  had  made  this  emigration 
a  condition  of  paying  his  brother's  debts  for  the 
second  time. 

After  presenting  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the 
Governor-General  at  the  Citadel,  Dick  Grafton,  whose 
good  looks,  high  spirits,  and  impulsive  generosity 
made  him  wonderfully  popular  with  all  classes  of 
people,  had  spent  six  weeks  in  Quebec,  enjoying 
the  friendship  of  the  Governor-General,  with  whom 
he  went  on  several  fishing  excursions,  and  abandoning 
himself  to  the  excitements  and  pleasures  of  the  old 
French  capital.  From  Quebec  he  moved  to  Montreal, 
where  he  was  handsomely  entertained  by  the  leading 
bankers  and  the  heads  of  the  Canadian  Pacific  Rail- 
way, and  where  he  found  a  more  congenial  wildness 
than  existed  in  Quebec. 

It  was  during  his  intemperate  career  in  Montreal 
that  he  fell  in  love  with  the  woman  who  had  attracted 
the  sympathy  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith. 
She  was  at  that  time  a  girl  fresh  from  the  convent, 
beautiful  in  expression,  distinguished  in  appearance, 
and  charming  with  the  simplicity  and  shyness  of  a 
perfectly  pure  and  innocent  character.  Her  father 
was  a  politician  who  made  more  speeches  with  his 
hat  at  the  back  of  his  head  in  the  bar  of  the  Place 
Viger  Hotel  than  he  did  on  the  recognised  platforms 
of  the  country.  He  was  a  good-natured  Frenchman 
of  forty,  utterly  without  principle,  and  completely 

27 


The  Shadow 

abandoned  to  the  society  of  hard-drinking  and  con- 
vivial companions ;  life,  he  said,  should  be  lived  sans 
faqon,  and  with  a  tumbler  of  whisky  in  his  hand, 
his  shabby  silk  hat  at  every  imaginable  angle,  this 
once  generous  but  now  degraded  man  would  under- 
take to  prove,  in  a  voice  as  hoarse  as  a  costermonger's, 
his  large  eyes  overflowing  with  weakness,  laughter, 
and  good  temper,  that  there  was  a  deal  of  hypocrisy 
and  cant  among  the  kill-joys,  spoil-sports,  and 
Pharisees  of  every  religion  under  the  sun,  his  own 
included.  At  any  mention  of  "  boodle  "  and  "  graft  " 
he  would  wink  his  eye,  throw  back  his  head,  roar 
with  laughter,  and  say  that  matters  were  worse  in  the 
States. 

From  this  professional  politician,  who  hoped  by 
popularity  in  wine  bars  to  reach  a  place  in  the  next 
Cabinet,  Dick  Grafton  received  some  useful  advice. 
"  Canada,"  said  he,  "  is  at  the  beginning  of  a  boom. 
Here,  in  the  East,  it  is  trade ;  in  the  middle  West, 
wheat ;  beyond  the  Rockies,  fruit.  Take  my  advice  ; 
go  to  Winnipeg  and  grow  corn.  If  that  doesn't  suit 
you,  go  to  Okanagan  Valley  and  grow  fruit.  But 
go  west.  The  tide  of  capital  and  emigration  is 
setting  westward  ;  soon  it  will  be  a  rush." 

Dick  Grafton  visited  this  Frenchman's  house,  who 
was  a  widower,  and  came  under  the  spell  of  the 
convent  girl.  He  discussed  matters  with  the  father, 
refused  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  dot,  and  proposing 
to  the  daughter,  was  timidly  accepted  by  a  mind  too 
bewildered  by  his  charms  and  too  innocent  of  the 
world  to  realise  the  consequences  of  its  surrender. 

After  the  marriage,  which  was  in  the  nature  of  an 
28 


Hagar  and  Ishmael 

orgy,  the  profligate  and  his  beautiful,  frightened  bride 
started  for  the  West.  Dick  Grafton  was  at  last  in 
earnest  His  capital  had  dwindled ;  the  future  was 
threatening.  He  determined  to  make  a  fortune. 

Land  was  obtained  some  twenty  odd  miles  from 
Calgary,  then  a  mere  village,  and  in  six  months  Dick 
Grafton  had  a  wooden  house,  immense  ranges  of  farm 
buildings,  the  finest  of  agricultural  implements,  much 
cattle,  and  a  surviving  hundred  pounds  of  capital.  He 
was  thinking  of  applying  to  the  father-in-law  for  more 
money,  when  news  came  that  the  dissipated  politician 
had  dropped  down  dead  in  a  tavern. 

The  solitude  of  the  place  soon  became  intolerable 
to  this  wild  nature.  He  rode  frequently  to  Calgary, 
occasionally  he  made  journeys  to  Winnipeg,  for  weeks 
he  would  disappear  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and 
finally,  on  the  pretence  of  business,  he  would  go  to 
Vancouver  and  remain  there  for  months  at  a  time. 

Mary  Grafton,  with  her  baby,  was  left  in  charge  of 
the  farm.  She  had  no  money,  and  the  men  on  the 
place  were  sometimes  outspoken  on  the  matter  of  their 
wages.  Her  situation  was  one  of  the  greatest  misery 
and  anxiety,  only  relieved  by  love  for  her  child.  She 
felt  the  loneliness  and  helplessness  of  her  state,  was 
alarmed  by  the  long  absence  of  her  husband,  was 
appalled  by  the  immense  silence  and  the  everlasting 
monotony  of  the  great  prairie. 

Then  a  gradual  change  worked  in  her  mind. 

As  her  boy  grew,  her  mind  became  more  restful. 
He  was  everything  to  her  heart — humanity,  cities, 
occupation,  passion,  duty,  religion,  eternity.  She 
wanted  nothing  else.  And  with  this  change  the 

29 


The  Shadow 

prairie  no  longer  annihilated  her  consciousness  ;  it  was 
the  foreshadowing  immortality  of  her  devotion.  She 
loved  its  wide  spaces,  its  innumerable  shades,  its 
eternal  silence.  She  felt  the  breathings  of  the  dawn  in 
her  blood,  the  kiss  of  the  night  on  her  brow.  Nature 
was  conscious  of  her  and  loved  her.  She  was  content. 

The  child  adored  his  mother.  At  her  knee  he 
learned  to  draw  and  to  read  ;  from  her  lips  he  received 
the  mystery  of  God.  It  was  she  who  taught  him  to 
ride,  and  who  took  his  hand  at  night  and  stood  under 
the  moving  pageant  of  the  heavens,  teaching  him  to 
feel  the  majesty  of  the  universe.  Her  voice  was  very 
low  and  caressing.  Every  word  that  she  uttered  made 
a  lasting  influence  on  the  impressionable  child.  He 
would  sit  on  her  lap,  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  his 
eyes  searching  into  the  profound  depths  of  hers. 
"  Mother,"  he  would  say,  "  I  believe  I  could  see  your 
soul  if  my  face  wasn't  in  the  way."  Her  beautiful 
dark  eyes  reflected  the  child's  like  a  mirror. 

Consider  the  situation.  For  eight  years  this  inex- 
perienced French  girl  from  a  convent,  married  to  a 
wild,  dissolute,  and  unprincipled  Englishman,  lived  in 
the  unbroken  solitude  of  her  motherhood.  The  world 
was  the  prairie  ;  humanity,  the  men  who  worked  on 
the  farm.  Neighbours  there  were  none.  The  sound 
of  church  bells  never  reached  that  desolation.  Neither 
priest  nor  doctor  came  to  her  door.  Civilisation  was 
the  daily  round  of  domestic  duties.  She  walked  or 
rode  with  her  boy  far  into  the  prairie,  without  seeing 
house,  shop,  or  living  creature.  She  was  conscious  of 
her  son,  her  soul,  and  God.  This  trinity  was  her 
motherhood  ;  there  was  nothing  else. 

30 


Hagar  and  Ishmael 

It  is  necessary  to  realise  the  plenitude  of  her 
motherhood  for  a  right  understanding  of  subsequent 
events. 

When  this  son,  whose  name  was  Christopher,  had 
reached  his  eighth  year,  a  friend  of  the  father,  accom- 
panied by  the  lawyer  of  Calgary,  came  one  day  from 
Vancouver  with  news  that  Dick  Grafton  was  dead  and 
buried.  The  sordid  details  of  his  death  were  merci- 
fully hidden  from  his  widow. 

When  the  dissolute  friend  had  made  an  end,  the 
lawyer  took  up  the  tale. 

The  farm  was  mortgaged.  There  was  nothing 
which  the  young  widow  could  touch  and  say,  "  This  is 
mine."  From  the  buildings,  the  stock,  the  imple- 
ments, and  the  wheat  growing  in  the  earth,  to  the 
furniture  in  the  rooms  and  the  pots  and  pans  in  the 
kitchen,  everything  was  sold  over  her  head. 

The  friend  from  Vancouver  offered  comfort.  Dick 
Grafton,  he  said,  had  written  on  his  death-bed  to  his 
brother  in  England  saying  that  his  widow  would  sail 
for  England  with  his  son,  whom  he  commended  to  his 
brother's  love,  by  the  next  steamer.  He  wished  Mrs. 
Grafton  to  go  to  England  immediately.  A  subscrip- 
tion had  been  raised  among  Dick's  friends  in  Van- 
couver and  Victoria.  He  had  brought  with  him  a 
sum  of  money  sufficient  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the 
journey.  The  expenses  of  Dick's  illness  and  funeral 
had  been  already  deducted  from  the  subscription.  He 
brought  the  receipts  and  placed  them  in  her  hands — 
a  message  from  the  dead. 

Mary  Grafton  was  staggered  and  dumb.  Her  father 
was  dead.  She  had  no  friend  in  all  the  length  and 

.31 


The  Shadow 

breadth  of  this  vast  continent,  which  was  yet  her 
cherished  home.  To  whom  could  she  turn  for  com- 
fort and  counsel  ?  The  man  from  Vancouver  was 
flaccid  with  drink.  The  lawyer  from  Calgary  was 
adamant.  Who  could  help  her  ?  What  could  she 
do  ?  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  life  had  become  one 
question,  and  one  only,  "  How  shall  we  live  ?  "  She 
was  a  beggar  and  her  son  was  an  outcast. 

There  was  nothing  for  the  young  mother  and  her 
child  but  exile. 

She  knew  from  what  her  husband  had  said  that 
his  brother  was  a  great  man  in  England  ;  but  he 
was  a  stranger  to  her,  and  the  country  was  foreign. 
To  leave  Canada,  to  turn  her  back  upon  the  prairie 
was  terrible  ;  to  go  penniless  and  dependent  to  this 
stranger,  in  a  land  utterly  unknown  to  her,  was  an 
agony. 

Necessity  drove  her  from  her  home  ;  destitution 
forced  her  towards  the  stranger. 

When  she  had  paid  the  wages  due  to  the  men 
on  the  farm,  there  was  just  enough  money  for  the 
long  journey.  She  travelled,  as  we  have  seen,  third- 
class. 

Is  it  not  plain  why  the  figure  on  the  fo'c'sle  head 
attracted  the  gaze  of  so  many  people  ? 

What  grief  could  be  more  bitter,  what  desolation 
more  complete  ?  This  young  mother  and  the  child 
whom  she  adored  found  themselves  expelled  from  a 
solitude  which  was  heavenly  to  a  sociality  which 
frightened  and  repelled.  They  had  left  the  noble 
isolation  of  the  prairie  for  the  packed  consociation 
of  the  steerage.  They  had  come  from  the  hush  of  the 

32 


Hagar  and  Ishmael 

sanctuary  into  the  harsh  clangour  of  a  world  which 
seemed  to  them  coarse,  hostile,  and  cruel. 

The  eight  years  in  the  wilderness,  eight  years  of 
communion  with  Nature,  had  given  to  Mary  Grafton 
that  sublimity  of  carriage  and  expression  which  drew 
the  gaze  of  so  many  people  on  board  the  liner.  The 
dignity  of  soul  which  comes  from  unbroken  inter- 
course with  Nature  is  different  from  every  other  form 
of  nobility.  It  is  as  different  from  the  dignity  of  a 
lady  of  quality,  however  virtuous,  as  the  stars  from 
electric  light,  as  different  from  the  dignity  of  scholar- 
ship and  authority  as  the  mountain  from  the  statue. 
And  yet,  though  there  is  no  grandeur  which  can 
compare  with  it,  one  sees  in  the  ascetic  of  the  'wilder- 
ness a  wistfulness  and  sad  serenity  which  inspires  the 
dignity  of  his  soul  with  qualities  more  agreeable  than 
mere  haughtiness  or  a  self-centred  arrogance.  One 
is  conscious  of  reverence  in  the  presence  of  these 
anchorites  of  Nature  who  are  so  grand,  so  sad,  and 
so  gentle 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  the  heart  of  Mary 
Grafton,  but  an  enduring  sorrow.  She  felt  the  cold- 
ness of  the  world,  the  hostility  of  humanity,  the 
punishment  of  necessity.  She  was  alone  with  her  son 
in  the  midst  of  a  multitude  who  did  not  care.  She 
had  no  money  to  buy  bread  for  him ;  there  was 
nothing  she  could  do  to  provide  for  him.  Worse  still, 
in  this  horrible  hard  world,  she  was  the  boy's  only 
protector  and  shield,  and  she  was  ignorant  of  life. 

When  the  brother  of  Louis  Bonaparte  said  to  Victor 
Hugo,  "  Death  is  the  affair  of  a  moment,  but  exile 
is  long,"  the  poet  replied,  "  It  is  a  habit  to  be 

33  D 


The    Shadow 

learned."  There  was  this  difference,  however,  between 
the  great  Frenchman  and  the  French  widow  from 
Canada  ;  he  loved  society,  she  solitude  ;  he  was  driven 
from  Paris,  she  from  the  prairie ;  he  loved  the  world, 
she  feared  it ;  he  knew  all  things,  she  nothing ;  his 
exile  was  with  honour,  hers  with  humiliation  ;  he 
left  behind  him  politics,  she  left  behind  her  Nature  ; 
he  went  to  a  country  of  his  own  choice  and  as  his 
own  master,  she  to  a  country  dictated  to  her  and  as 
a  dependent  In  one  thing  only  did  their  exile 
agree,  both  were  conscious  of  God.  Victor  Hugo 
said,  "  It  is  a  habit  to  be  learned " ;  Mary  Grafton 
cried  to  God  in  the  silence  of  her  heart,  "Father, 
protect  my  child." 

The  information  which  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  gathered 
from  her  husband's  narrative  fired  her  interest  in  the 
young  widow.  "  Did  I  not  say,"  she  exclaimed  from 
the  lower  berth,  as  the  ship  rolled  with  a  horrible 
lurch,  "  that  there  was  some  romance  about  her  ?  A 
sister-in-law  of  a  baronet  travelling  third-class  and 
herding  with  the  lowest  people !  Mauritius,  we  must 
get  to  the  bottom  of  her  story,  and  we  must  help 
her.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  a  wink  of  sleep  to- 
night. It  makes  my  heart  bleed  to  think  of  that 
beautiful,  sorrowful  young  thing  lying  in  a  miserable 
bunk  surrounded  by  the  snores  and  curses  of  emigrants. 
Emigrants  eat  onions  and  never  wash  ;  steerage  is 
stewage.  They  are  packed  like  sardines.  Instead  ol 
a  door  there  is  a  curtain.  Horrible  !  The  arrange- 
ments are  made  for  savages  and  she  is  a  lady.  Some- 
body ought  to  speak  to  the  captain." 

"  Angel,"  replied  the  Collector  from  the  upper  berth, 
34 


Hagar  and   Ishmael 

"somebody  ought  to  speak  to  the  laws  of  political 
economy.  Those  are  the  rascals  ;  those  are  the 
autocrats  and  tyrants.  Ah,  if  only  I  could  get  at 
them.  What  a  world  it  is  !  And  yet,  Annabel — and 
yet,  dear  love,  if  I  conducted  any  one  of  my  businesses 
as  you  would  like  other  people  to  conduct  theirs — the 
directors  of  this  shipping  company,  for  instance — you 
and  I,  pet,  would  be  travelling  steerage,  grateful  for 
an  onion.  Let  us  be  fair  to  the  universe." 

The  ship  gave  a  great  shudder.  Undisturbed  by 
this  noise,  Mrs.  Mauritius  asked,  "  What  is  her  brother- 
in-law  about  to  let  her  travel  in  such  a  fashion  ?  Of 
course  he  doesn't  know  she  is  coming,  we  are  aware 
of  that ;  but  still,  you  would  think  that  somebody 
might  have  done  something." 

Mauritius,  rubbing  his  head  into  the  pillow,  an- 
nounced from  the  upper  berth,  "The  misery  of  the 
world,  pet,  is  very  largely  attributable  to  everybody 
wondering  why  in  the  name  of  fortune  somebody 
doesn't  do  something.  Somebody  is  the  alias  of 
nobody.  Something  is  a  synonym  for  the  impossible." 

"  I  intend  to  do  something,"  retorted  the  lower  berth. 

"  Another  bottle  of  eau-de-cologne  ? — Birdie,  you  are 
going  it."  He  sighed  and  muttered  to  himself,  "What 
a  heart ! " 

"  I  shall  go  and  speak  to  her  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs. 
Smith  ;  "  if  we  can't  give  her  the  moon  we  can  show 
her  kindness." 

The  ship  rolled  at  a  sickening  angle.  "What  a 
night ! "  said  the  upper  berth.  "  Nature,  you  observe, 
Annabel,  is  no  respecter  of  first-class.  We  suffer  with 
the  folks  in  the  steerage." 

35  D   2 


The    Shadow 

Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  kept  her  word.  She  descended 
to  the  steerage  after  breakfast,  and  mounted  to  the 
fo'c'sle  head.  The  morning  was  bright  and  beautiful ; 
above  was  a  translucent  sky  spaced  with  continents 
of  clouds  ;  stretching  away  to  the  surrounding  horizon 
was  the  sea,  dark  blue  champing  white  foam,  and 
flashing  sunlight ;  the  air  was  crystal  clear  ;  the  wind 
fresh  and  rejoicing.  One  felt  without  looking  that 
the  masts,  ventilators,  and  funnels  of  the  liner  shone 
in  the  sunlight  The  decks  were  dry  and  cheerful,  the 
white  paint  had  a  glisten.  As  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith 
made  her  way  through  the  crowded  waist  she  smiled 
upon  mothers  and  swarming  children  of  half-a-dozen 
nationalities  who  appeared  to  be  rather  more  happy 
and  delighted  than  the  people  she  had  left  on  the 
upper  deck. 

Mary  Grafton  stood  with  her  son  in  the  narrowest 
part  of  the  bows,  looking  forward.  One  of  her  hands 
was  resting  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  She  wore  no  hat 
and  her  beautiful  hair  was  trembling  in  the  wind. 
Mrs.  Smith  was  at  first  disappointed  in  her  face.  The 
features  were  not  so  regular  as  she  had  thought  ;  the 
skin  was  less  fine  than  she  had  imagined.  But  directly 
the  young  widow  spoke  she  was  brought  back  to  her 
original  opinion. 

The  voice  was  exceedingly  sweet  in  tone,  with  such 
a  reserve  of  quiet  strength,  suggesting  an  infinite  depth 
of  personality,  that  Mrs.  Smith  immediately  recognised 
superiority  by  becoming  conscious  in  herself  of  inferi- 
ority. This  superiority  of  the  steerage  passenger  was 
not  social,  intellectual,  nor  moral ;  it  was  a  superiority 
of  character,  of  being,  of  personality.  As  Mrs.  Smith 

36 


Hagar  and   Ishmael 

listened  to  the  haunting  voice  she  observed  the  wonder 
and  the  splendour  of  the  woman's  eyes. 

In  a  moment,  by  a  few  words  uttered  in  her  beauti- 
ful voice,  Mary  Grafton  had  transformed  disappoint- 
ment into  enthusiastic  admiration.  Mrs.  Mauritius 
Smith  told  herself  that  the  poor  young  widow  was 
superb,  mysterious,  unique — a  woman  unlike  any 
other  woman  she  had  ever  met. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  Mary  Grafton 
found  herself  in  conversation  with  a  kind  and  gentle 
creature  of  her  own  sex.  She  did  not  respond  with 
effusion,  but  she  was  conscious  of  comfort.  Dread 
of  the  world,  fear  of  the  human  species,  gave  way  in 
her  heart  to  some  inexpressible  and  quite  undefinable 
hope.  She  met  Mrs.  Smith's  questions  with  perfect 
candour,  but  her  answers  were  brief  and  delivered  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  suggest  reserve.  Conversation 
was  something  new  to  her ;  kindness  was  disturbing 
in  its  novelty. 

"  How  I  envy  you  ! "  Mrs.  Smith  said,  "  you  lucky 
creature — you  ;  to  be  going  to  lovely  Gloucestershire, 
and  to  live  in  a  gorgeous  country  house,  with  nice 
people  to  love  you  and  fuss  you.  I  only  wish  you 
could  see  my  rabbit-hutch  in  Perak  and  my  hovel  in 
Selangor.  No  country  like  England.  No  people 
like  the  English.  What  a  chance  for  your  boy  too ! 
You'll  see  him  one  day  walking  arm-in-arm  with  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  mark  my  words.  Mauritius  is  a 
judge  of  character.  He  said  to  me  this  morning, 
'  That  boy  will  mount.' " 

Mrs.  Smith  paid  many  visits  to  the  fo'c'sle  head. 
She  established  friendly  relations  with  Christopher, 

37 


The    Shadow 

who  showed  her  his  drawing-book,  saying-,  "  I  did 
this,"  or  "  Mother  did  that,"  or  "  Mother  helped  me 
in  this  one."  She  succeeded,  too,  in  making  her 
cheerful  visits  really  welcome  to  Mary  Grafton,  who 
began  to  greet  her  with  a  smile  and  to  part  from 
her  with  affection,  Mauritius  came  with  his  angel 
on  these  visits,  and  delighted  the  boy  by  saying, 
"  Only  the  clockwork,"  whenever  his  face  assumed 
the  terrifying  aspect  of  an  ogre.  He  brought  with 
him  sweets,  oranges,  and  pictures.  He  told  wonderful 
stories  of  the  jungle,  stories  of  monkeys  he  had 
caught,  tigers  he  had  shot,  and  butterflies  he  had 
netted  ;  he  gave  Christopher  a  very  perfect  idea  of 
the  Malay  Peninsula — the  coral  reefs,  the  exotic 
flowers,  the  immense  trees,  the  mountains,  the  coffee 
and  tobacco  plantations,  the  little,  black-eyed,  lank- 
haired,  olive-skinned  inhabitants.  Never  in  all  his 
life  had  Christopher  met  such  a  hero.  The  boy 
sat  on  the  Collector's  knee,  staring  into  his  red  and 
wrinkled  face,  with  its  enormous  nose  and  ferocious 
moustaches,  listening  with  an  enchantment  and  a 
breathless  wonder  to  these  stories  of  the  world.  And 
while  they  delighted  each  other  in  this  fashion,  Mrs. 
Smith  and  the  mother  of  Christopher  walked  slowly 
up  and  down,  or  stood  together  at  the  ship's  side 
talking  with  an  entire  confidence. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Collector's  wife,  who  had 
pressed  upon  the  young  widow  two  blouses,  a  lace 
fichu,  and  some  gloves,  "your  brother-in-law  will 
receive  you  with  open  arms.  He  will  be  proud  of 
your  beauty,  and  your  boy  will  delight  him.  You 
don't  know  whether  he  is  married  or  not  ;  but  it 

38 


Hagar  and  Ishmael 

really  does  not  signify.  If  he  is,  his  wife  will  be  glad 
of  your  companionship,  and  his  children  will  make 
a  hero  of  their  cousin  from  Canada.  How  I  should 
like  to  be  by  when  you  make  your  grand  entrance  ! 
You  are  a  very  lucky  woman  ;  England  is  a  much 
nicer  country  than  Canada.  You  will  find  the  people 
charming.  You  will  mix  with  the  highest  in  the 
land.  Who  knows  that  your  boy  won't  go  to  Court 
and  be  Prime  Minister  ?  I  should  say  that  nothing 
is  more  likely." 

At  Liverpool  the  kind-hearted  Smiths  not  only 
made  arrangements  with  the  Captain  by  which  the 
Graftons  were  able  to  leave  the  ship  earlier  than 
the  rest  of  the  steerage  passengers,  but  they  post- 
poned their  own  business  in  the  town  in  order  to 
see  the  strangers  safely  on  the  road  for  Gloucester- 
shire. 

Mauritius,  who  had  startled  the  passengers  by 
appearing  in  a  braided  frock-coat  and  an  old-fashioned 
but  highly  polished  silk  hat,  sent  a  telegram  to  Sir 
Matthew  Grafton  announcing  the  hour  at  which  his 
relations  would  arrive  at  the  station.  He  then  saw 
to  the  provision  of  their  meal  during  the  journey. 
After  giving  Christopher  a  bundle  of  illustrated 
papers,  he  handed  Mrs.  Grafton  his  card,  saying, 

"  If  at  any  time  I  can  be  of  use  to  you No 

need  to  say  any  more  ;  a  perfect  understanding 
between  us.  You  will  observe  three  addresses  on  the 
card.  The  London  address,  my  agent's,  will  find 
me  for  three  months,  perhaps  longer.  We  go  to  the 
metropolis  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  I  shall  write  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Mauritius.  "  And 
39 


The    Shadow 

you    must  write   back   and   tell   me   all   about  your 
grand  goings-on." 

"  My  wife  crosses  her  letters,"  said  Mauritius,  and 
made  an  involuntary  grimace  which  startled  a  porter. 

The  train  was  about  to  start. 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it ! "  exclaimed  Mauritius, 
clutching  his  wife  round  the  waist,  for  that  impulsive 
little  lady  had  stepped  on  the  foot-board,  seized  Mrs. 
Grafton's  arm,  and  thrust  her  face  through  the  window. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Mary  Grafton 
could  remember  being  kissed  by  a  woman. 

"Annabel,  come  off!"  said  the  Collector,  tugging 
his  wife's  arm.  "  This  instant !  Pet,  you  are  im- 
perilling my  happiness !  What  a  heart !  " 

"  God  bless  you  !  God  bless  you  ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Smith,  following  the  train. 

"  Annabel,  my  arm  ! "  said  Mauritius  sternly. 

But  Mrs.  Mauritius  still  advanced  beside  the  moving 
train,  from  a  window  of  which  Christopher  was  now 
waving  his  handkerchief. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye,"  she  kept  saying,  in  a  voice 
which  only  just  reached  her  own  ears. 

"  Annabel,  do  you  wish  me  to  exert  force  ? " 
demanded  Mauritius,  keeping  her  back  from  the  edge 
of  the  platform  with  a  most  affectionate  pressure  of 
his  arm.  "  Need  you  be  suicidally  benevolent,  my 
dear  ?  Need  you  destroy  my  happiness  merely  to 
gratify  your  own  feelings  ? " 

"  I  feel — I  feel  as  if  my  heart  will  burst,"  answered 
his  wife,  turning  away.  "  Oh,  Mauritius,  to  think  of 
that  poor,  lonely  young  thing  going  as  a  beggar  to 
relations  she  knows  nothing  about." 

40 


Hagar  and  Ishmael 

"  Angel,"  replied  Mauritius  sadly,  "  let  us  contem- 
plate the  matter  calmly.  Your  heart  burst,  in  the  first 
case,  because  the  lady  was  travelling  steerage ;  that  evil 
has  passed,  that  scandal  has  been  removed,  that  iniquity 
has  ceased  to  operate.  The  shuddering  victim  has 
survived.  Fanfare  of  trumpets !  But  your  heart  is 
bursting  now  for  another  reason.  Pause.  Need  it 
burst  ?  A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine.  Don't  let  it 
burst.  Consider  for  one  moment.  In  the  distance  of 
the  lady's  future  looms  the  interesting  figure  of  a 
baronet.  Baronets,  beloved,  are  not  monsters  — 
noblesse  oblige ;  a  baronet's  movements  in  real  life  are 
not  accompanied  by  slow  music  ;  immense  achieve- 
ment of  democracy  —  your  modern  baronet  is  not 
necessarily  villainous.  Annabel,  take  a  bright  view, 
take  a  snob's  view.  Baronets  are  beautiful.  The  lady 
for  whom  your  heart  is  bleeding,  quite  unnecessarily, 
my  queen,  is  at  this  moment  ascending  into  the  exalted 
atmosphere  of  aristocracy ;  you  and  I,  adored  one,  if 
I  mistake  not,  are  making  our  middle-class  way  to  a 
two-and-sixpenny  luncheon  in  a  commercial  hotel." 

"  Mauritius,  do  you  really  think  they  will  treat  her 
kindly?" 

"  Annabel,  if  they  don't !  " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  There's  the  village  policeman."  With  a  lift  of  his 
head,  Mauritius  ended  the  matter  by  exclaiming,  "  The 
Middle  Ages  are  dead.  Bluebeard  is  impossible.  The 
meanest  subject  of  Her  Most  Gracious  Majesty  is  free. 
Rule  Britannia !  God  save  the  Queen  !  " 


CHAPTER   III. 
THE    WELCOME 

IT  was  towards  evening  when  Mary  Grafton  and  her 
son  arrived  at  the  railway  station.  There  was  no 
one  to  meet  them.  People  greeted  their  friends, 
collected  luggage,  and  went  away. 

She  was  still  standing  on  the  platform,  waiting  for 
someone  to  address  her,  when  the  train  departed. 

"  Don't  you  know  where  we  are  to  go,  mother  ? " 
asked  Christopher,  glancing  up  suspiciously. 

At  that  moment  a  porter  approached  and  asked  if 
the  tin  box  on  the  platform  was  Mary's  luggage. 
"  Sir  Matthew's  carriage,"  he  said,  "  is  outside." 

They  found  a  one-horsed  brougham  in  the  yard, 
with  a  luggage  basket  on  the  roof.  Christopher  was 
greatly  struck  by  the  cockaded  coachman  in  his  buff 
coat  and  the  black  horse  with  its  silver  harness. 

"  What  a  splendid  carriage,"  he  said,  when  they  were 
inside.  "  Did  you  see  the  crest  on  the  door  ?  I  say, 
mother,  aren't  the  cushions  soft  ? " 

After  passing  through  a  cheerful  market  town  and 
following  a  narrow,  high-hedged  road  for  half  a  mile, 
the  carriage  began  to  ascend  a  hill.  The  big  horse 
pulled  the  well-hung  brougham  without  effort. 

Between  the  branches  of  trees  Christopher,  who  was 
standing  up  at  the  carriage  window,  caught  glimpses 

42 


The  Welcome 

of  a  vale  which  was  flooded  with  a  golden  mist.  As 
the  carriage  ascended  the  hill,  this  vale  opened  out 
more  and  more,  disclosing  a  wide  pasture  dotted  with 
trees,  through  which  a  river  wound  its  way  in  sinuous 
folds  which  sparkled  like  a  crystal  floor.  "  Oh,  mother," 
he";  exclaimed,  with  a  catch  of  his  breath,  "  isn't  it 
beautiful  ? "  It  reminded  him  in  the  glowing  sunset 
mist  of  pictures  and  dreams  of  Paradise. 

The  hedges,  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  wonderful 
emerald  of  the  grass,  delighted  this  son  of  the  prairie. 
He  was  so  deeply  moved  by  it  all  that  he  could 
scarcely  speak.  With  his  hands  on  the  window-ledge, 
his  knees  unconsciously  knocking  against  the  door,  he 
stood  entranced  and  wondering,  feeling  the  spell  of 
this  new  and  wholly  unsuspected  world.  Every  now 
and  then  he  snuffed  the  air,  delighted  by  the  deep 
woodland  scents  of  autumn. 

The  hill  grew  stiffer  and  the  horse  came  to  a  walk. 

Presently  the  trees  and  hedges  fell  away,  and  from 
a  goodly  height  the  valley  burst  upon  their  view. 
"  Oh,  mother,  look — look  !  "  exclaimed  Christopher 
excitedly,  and  made  room  for  her  at  the  window. 

Against  the  rich  splendours  of  the  west  rose  purple 
hills,  drowned  in  a  gold  light  immediately  beneath 
the  setting  sun,  and  on  either  side  rolling  away  into 
violet  mists  as  soft  as  dreams.  Enclosed  between  these 
cloud-like  ramparts  lay  the  broad  and  fertile  valley, 
diaphanous  in  the  distance,  everywhere  powdered 
by  gold  light,  and  lifting  from  its  sward  of  green 
velvet  the  gold  and  russet  banners  of  autumn.  The 
river  reflected  the  crimson  clouds  and  the  blue  sky. 
It  shone  through  the  wooded  valley  like  a  path  of 

43 


The  Shadow 

light,  a  high  road  to  the  sun,  a  way  to  heaven.  The 
wide  scene  was  incomparably  fair.  Birds  were  singing 
in  the  still  air  ;  rabbits,  which  appeared  enormous  to 
Christopher  after  the  gophers  of  the  prairie,  were 
feeding  on  the  down.  As  the  carriage  ascended,  the 
sound  of  a  church  bell  ringing  for  evensong  floated  to 
their  ears. 

"  It  is  like  the  Garden  of  Eden,"  said  Christopher. 
"  Oh,  mother,  aren't  we  lucky  to  have  such  a  country 
to  live  in  ! " 

The  carriage  went  forward  again  at  a  swift  trot,  and 
presently,  at  a  slower  pace,  began  a  descent.  In  a  few 
minutes  they  were  passing  through  a  picturesque  village 
of  stone  houses,  from  which  had  come  the  sound  of 
the  church  bell  ;  the  tall  pillars  of  drive  gates  flashed 
past  them ;  they  were  moving  quickly  through  a 
picturesque  park,  where  the  trees  were  guarded  by 
railings,  and  where  cattle  were  feeding  in  great  numbers. 

At  a  turn  of  the  drive  they  passed  over  a  bridge  and 
entered  the  gardens,  which  were  separated  by  a  sunk 
fence  from  the  park  land.  The  house  came  into  view. 

It  was  a  low,  deep,  and  solid  building  of  grey  stone, 
partly  covered  with  creepers,  and  forming  three  sides 
of  a  gravelled  quadrangle.  The  noble  arched  doorway 
with  carved  spandrels  was  surmounted  by  a  coat  of 
arms.  The  lofty  latticed  windows  on  the  ground  floor 
were  emblazoned  with  shields,  and  in  the  case  of  two 
handsome  bay  windows  on  either  side  of  the  doorway 
there  was  the  further  embellishment  of  handsome 
battlemented  parapets  reaching  to  the  eaves.  The 
open  space  of  the  quadrangle  gave  a  sense  of  spacious- 
ness to  this  ancient  house.  The  tall  trees  on  either 

44 


The  Welcome 

side  of  it,  and  others  rising  above  the  roof  on  the 
farther  side,  enclosed  the  stone  mansion  with  a  feeling 
of  homeliness.  One  felt  that  the  first  grandeur  of  the 
place  had  yielded  to  centuries  of  home  love,  family 
affection,  and  domestic  peace. 

While  Christopher  sat  mute  with  astonishment,  his 
mother  kept  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  doorway,  hoping 
and  almost  expecting  to  see  her  brother-in-law  emerge 
with  children  crowding  at  his  side. 

The  carriage  drew  nearer,  the  door  remained  closed. 

"  Mother,  are  we  really  going  to  live  here  ?  "  asked 
Christopher,  turning  to  her  with  a  puzzled  and  baffled 
expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  This  is  your  uncle's  house,  dear,"  she  answered, 
watching  the  door.  "  Your  father  lived  here  when  he 
was  a  boy." 

"  Why  did  he  leave  it  ? " 

"  Do  you  like  it  very  much  ? " 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  grand ! "  he  answered,  turning  once 
more  to  the  window.  "  I  never  knew  houses  could 
be  like  this." 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  arched  doorway. 
Christopher  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out.  At 
the  same  moment  the  great  door  of  the  house 
opened  and  a  butler  advanced  to  the  carriage.  His 
eyes  glanced  for  a  moment  at  the  tin  box  in  the 
luggage  basket. 

No  one  was  in  the  hall  to  greet  them.  The  noise 
of  the  carriage  wheels  moving  away  from  the  house 
came  to  Mary's  ears  as  the  butler  closed  the  door,  and 
she  stood  in  the  silence  of  the  panelled  hall  waiting 
for  the  unknown.  Christopher,  who  was  gazing  at 

45 


The  Shadow 

portraits  on  the  oak  wall,  put  his  hand  through  his 
mother's  arm  and  kept  close  to  her  side. 

They  were  conducted  across  this  hall,  which  was 
dim  and  solemn  like  a  church,  to  a  broad  corridor 
through  which  sunlight  was  streaming  from  an  open 
door  at  the  end  leading  to  the  pleasure  gardens.  On 
the  walls  were  pictures,  and  on  either  side  busts 
standing  upon  marble  pillars.  They  passed  a  fireplace 
with  a  stone  mantelpiece  reaching  to  the  roof. 

The  servant  paused  at  a  door  and  opened  it.  He 
announced  no  name,  and  waited  for  Mary  to  advance. 

She  found  herself  in  a  large  room,  which  was  bright 
with  sunshine,  flowers,  and  beautiful  things.  At  the 
far  end  of  this  apartment  a  lady  rose  from  a  writing- 
cabinet,  and  advanced  to  meet  the  travellers  with  a 
jingle  of  ornaments,  a  rustle  of  garments,  and  no 
words.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  and  wore  a  garden 
hat  of  white  straw  trimmed  with  black  silk.  For 
nothing  but  a  somewhat  unusual  firmness  and  resolu- 
tion of  expression  could  this  middle-aged  lady  be 
described  as  remarkable.  She  was  of  average  height 
and  average  build.  Her  hair  was  colourless,  her 
features  plain,  her  skin  commonplace.  It  was  only 
in  the  eyes,  which  were  straw-coloured  and  had 
exceedingly  small  and  penetrating  pupils,  that  one 
detected  originality.  This  originality  lay  in  a  rough- 
ness of  disposition  which  was  masculine. 

She  gave  Mary  her  hand  without  speaking,  but 
bowed  a  little  and  permitted  a  slight  smile  to  flicker 
at  the  corner  of  her  lips ;  then  she  turned  to  Christopher, 
shrinking  at  his  mother's  side,  and  inquired,  "  What  is 
his  name  ? " 

46 


The  Welcome 

"  Christopher,"  the  mother  answered. 

"  Christopher !     How  odd  !     An  unusual  name." 

She  went  towards  the  hearth  where  a  table  was 
set  ready  for  tea.  "  You  must  be  fatigued  after  your 
journey,"  she  said.  "  Pray  sit  down."  She  indicated 
a  settee  with  an  inclination  of  her  head,  and  proceeded 
to  pour  boiling  water  from  a  kettle  into  the  teapot. 

Mary  and  Christopher  sat  down  side  by  side  on  the 
settee. 

"  Did  you  have  a  rough  crossing  ? "  she  asked, 
glancing  for  a  moment  at  Mary,  and  then  fixing  her 
eyes  upon  Christopher. 

"  It  was  our  first  experience  of  the  sea,"  Mary  replied. 

"Nothing  unusual,  I  expect,"  said  the  lady;  "things 
are  mostly  normal.  Won't  you  eat  something  ? 
Christopher,  you  can  pass  the  dishes." 

When  she  had  poured  out  their  tea,  she  said, 
"  Perhaps  I  should  explain  to  you  that  I  am  Miss 
Grafton."  She  looked  at  Christopher,  and  added, 
"  You  will  call  me  Aunt  Isabel.  Let  me  hear  you 
say  it.  Come,  you've  got  a  tongue  in  your  head. 
Aunt  Isabel — let  me  hear  you  say  that"  When  poor 
Christopher  had  mumbled  the  name,  she  said,  "The 
boy  is  nervous.  He  must  get  over  that,"  and  taking 
up  a  long  and  narrow  silver  tube  blew  out  the  flame 
of  the  spirit-kettle. 

She  fixed  her  gaze  upon  Christopher  and  watched 
him  eat.  "  You'll  be  careful  of  crumbs,"  she  said  once. 
She  spoke  about  the  weather,  the  state  of  the  garden, 
and  matters  of  a  similar  nature.  She  might  have  been 
entertaining  a  casual  caller  from  the  village.  When 
they  had  finished  their  tea  she  inquired  if  Mary  would 

47 


The  Shadow 

like  to  go  to  her  room,  and  told  Christopher  to  ring 
the  bell.  "  Harder,"  she  said,  as  he  gave  a  nervous 
pull  to  the  bell-rope ;  "  try  and  strike  a  medium 
between  tugging  and  fumbling." 

When  the  butler  appeared  she  told  him  to  request 
Mrs.  Ryder  to  come  to  the  drawing-room.  "  We  dine 
at  eight,"  she  said  to  Mary.  "  Christopher,  I  suppose, 
goes  to  bed  before  that  hour ;  but  perhaps  to-night  he 
had  better  sit  up.  Will  you  come  to  this  room  at 
about  five  minutes  to  eight  ?  We  try  to  be  as  punctual 
as  possible." 

The  housekeeper  appeared.  She  was  a  little,  shrew- 
ish-looking, rat-like  woman,  dressed  in  black  with  a 
black  lace  cap.  Her  face  was  the  colour  of  old 
parchment,  her  lips  a  faded  blue,  the  eyes  dark  and 
vigilant.  Miss  Grafton  delivered  Mary  and  Christopher 
into  the  hands  of  this  official,  and  returned  to  the 
writing-cabinet. 

Poor  Mary!  With  a  heart  aching  and  desolate 
she  took  Christopher's  hand  and  followed  the  little, 
hastening,  black  figure  through  long  corridors,  up 
stairs,  down  passages,  and  across  wide  landings,  till 
the  rat  stopped  before  a  closed  door,  waited  for  her  to 
come  up,  and  then  opened  it. 

"  This,  m'm,  is  your  room,"  she  said  in  a  hurrying 
voice,  which  suggested  that  she  had  pressing  business 
elsewhere.  "  Be  pleased  to  enter." 

It  was  a  beautiful  room.  One  object  alone  offended, 
the  tin  box. 

"The  young  gentleman's  room,"  continued  Mrs. 
Ryder,  "  is  in  the  west  wing."  She  backed  to  the 
door.  "  Perhaps,  m'm,  you  would  like  to  visit  it" 

48 


The  Welcome 

Mary's  eyes  expressed  anxiety.  "  I  should  like  him 
to  sleep  in  my  room,  if  it  is  possible,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Ryder,  with  a  pale  smile  and  the  least  sugges- 
tion of  a  shrugged  shoulder,  could  only  say  that  Miss 
Grafton  had  given  orders  for  a  room  in  the  west  wing. 

"  He  is  not  used  to  sleeping  away  from  me,"  said 
Mary.  "  If  you  could  have  a  bed  brought  in  here " 

Mrs.  Ryder  wagged  her  little  head.  "You  would 
have  to  speak  to  Miss  Grafton,  m'm,"  she  said,  with 
finality,  and  held  the  door  open. 

She  appeared  to  be  in  so  great  a  hurry  that  Mary 
resisted  no  longer,  and  holding  Christopher's  hand, 
preceded  her  into  the  passage.  The  diminutive  woman 
followed,  closed  the  door,  and  started  off  at  a  great 
pace,  leading  the  way  from  corridor  to  .corridor,  with 
the  travellers  hurrying  behind  her.  Christopher,  who 
was  horribly  alarmed  at  sleeping  so  far  away  from  his 
mother,  felt  his  heart  rising  to  his  mouth  with  every 
step  of  the  winding  way. 

"  Mother,"  he  whispered,  reaching  up  to  her  ear,  "  I 
don't  want  to  be  so  far  away  from  you." 

She  squeezed  his  hand  and  answered,  "  It  will  be  all 
right,  dear  ;  don't  be  afraid." 

To  the  frightened  boy  there  was  something  dreadful 
in  the  swift  and  perfectly  silent  paces  of  the  little  black 
housekeeper.  In  the  mother's  heart  was  a  rising 
mutiny  struggling  with  the  impotence  of  despair. 

Christopher's  room  was  in  the  bachelors'  quarter,  a 
small  and  rather  dark  apartment,  but  quite  comfortable 
and  pleasant.  The  single  window  was  open,  and  they 
saw  through  it,  behind  two  or  three  ancient  medlar- 
trees,  the  walls  of  the  stable  yard. 

49  E 


The  Shadow 

"The  young  gentleman  has  only  to  ring  the  bell 
for  anything  he  requires,"  said  Mrs.  Ryder.  She 
looked  about  her.  "  His  luggage  has  not  been 
brought  up  ? " 

"  All  his  things  are  in  my  box,"  said  Mary ;  and 
then,  taking  a  step  towards  the  little  black  rat,  she 
asked,  "  Will  you  see  if  his  bed  cannot  be  brought  into 
my  room  ? " 

Mrs.  Ryder  protested  that  it  was  beyond  her  power 
to  give  such  an  order,  but  after  pressure  consented  to 
place  the  matter  before  Miss  Grafton.  She  hurried 
from  the  room  on  this  mission. 

Directly  the  door  had  closed,  Christopher  put  his 
arms  about  his  mother,  and  said,  "  Don't  let  them 
take  you  away  from  me."  His  arms  were  trembling, 
his  face  was  pale.  "  Mother,  I  don't  like  this  place. 
I  want  to  go  away.  Let's  go  away  now."  She  com- 
forted him  as  well  as  she  could. 

A  thin  tap  at  the  door  announced  the  silent  return 
of  the  little  housekeeper.  Miss  Grafton,  she  said, 
wished  the  matter  to  wait  till  she  could  discuss  it  with 
Mrs.  Richard.  It  would  not  be  convenient  to  make 
any  alteration  that  evening. 

Christopher  clutched  his  mother's  hand  and  gazed 
up  into  her  face  with  alarm.  Mary  said  to  him,  "  My 
bed  is  big  enough  for  both  of  us." 

She  looked  up  and  met  the  gaze  of  the  house- 
keeper. Mrs.  Ryder's  lips  tightened,  and  she  dropped 
her  eyes.  "  Of  course,  m'm,  you  will  do  as  you  please," 
she  said,  "  but  it  would  be  best  perhaps  to  speak  to 
Miss  Grafton." 

The  return  journey  was  made  to  Mary's  room.  It 
50 


The  Welcome 

may  be  imagined  with  what  abandon  Christopher 
embraced  his  mother  when  they  were  alone  together. 
The  staggering  realisation  had  come  to  his  young  soul 
that  this  beautiful  mother  was  his  only  help  and  pro- 
tector, that  people  in  the  world  were  definitely  hostile 
to  him,  that  cruelty  was  a  dreadful  and  terrible  fact. 
Perhaps,  too,  he  was  conscious  of  his  mother's  loneli- 
ness, poverty,  and  dependence.  He  had  perceived  in 
his  long  journey  across  Canada,  and  on  board  the  ship 
from  Quebec  to  Liverpool,  that  he  and  his  mother 
travelled  with  rough  and  shabby  people,  while  other 
people  in  finer  clothes  occupied  comfortable  carriages 
and  walked  about  high  up  on  decks  that  were  roofed 
in  from  the  rain.  But  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt 
in  some  dim  fashion  the  tremendous  division  of  rich 
and  poor.  He  did  not  in  the  least  wish  to  be  rich, 
but  he  was  horribly  afraid  of  poverty. 

Mary  consoled  him  with  tenderness,  assurances  of 
her  love,  and  words  of  quiet  courage.  "  We  must  give 
no  trouble,"  she  said.  "  We  must  be  quiet  and  polite  ; 
but  we  will  keep  together." 

"  Don't  they  want  us  here  ? " 

"  You  see,  dear,  they  don't  know  us  yet." 

After  a  pause  he  said,  "  I  don't  like  Aunt  Isabel." 
He  lifted  his  face  and  searched  her  eyes.  "  Do  you, 
mother  ? " 

"  We  must  not  judge  too  early.  Perhaps  she  means 
to  be  kind." 

A  servant  arrived  presently  with  hot  water.  She 
offered  to  unpack  for  Mrs.  Richard,  but  Mary  declined. 

One  of  the  blouses  which  little  Mrs.  Mauritius  had 
given  to  Mary  Grafton  was  of  black  lace,  and  suitable 

51  K  2 


The  Shadow 

for  mourning.  Although  it  made  but  an  ill-fit,  Mary 
selected  this  garment  for  her  appearance  at  dinner,  and 
wore  it  with  the  dark  skirt  in  which  she  had  travelled. 

Mother  and  son  entered  the  drawing-room  at  five 
minutes  to  eight  Isabel  Grafton  was  sitting  in  an 
armchair  reading  the  newspaper.  She  was  dressed  in 
a  handsome  black  garment,  low  at  the  neck,  and,  as 
the  fashion  was  then,  almost  entirely  sleeveless.  Chris- 
topher gazed  at  the  amazing  spectacle.  The  curtains 
were  drawn,  candles  were  lighted  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  hear  that  you  want  Christopher  to  share  your 
room,"  Isabel  said,  lowering  the  paper  to  her  lap. 

"  He  is  not  used  to  sleeping  away  from  me," 
answered  Mary  gently. 

"But  surely  he  is  old  enough  to  begin?"  The  sharp 
eyes  fastened  on  Christopher  and  took  his  measure. 
"  He  is  quite  a  size.  A  boy  of  his  age  ought  to  begin 
to  be  manly.  You  don't  keep  him  soft,  I  hope  ? " 

"  He  is  not  quite  eight." 

"  Is  he  afraid  to  sleep  alone  ? " 

"  I  like  him  to  be  with  me,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  mother,  and  not  the  child,  who  is  the 
disturbing  factor,  I  see !     Well,  we  won't  discuss  the 
matter  now.     To-morrow  will  be  time  enough."     She 
folded  the  newspaper  carefully,  and  put  it  down  on 
table   at   her   side.     "  It  will   be   as  well,"  she   said, 
fixing  her  eyes  upon  Mary,  "  to  avoid  all  disputatious 
subjects  at  dinner.     My  brother  objects  to  persona 
matters.     We  talk  about  general  topics." 

The  door  opened. 

"This  is  Sir  Matthew  Grafton,"  said  Isabel,  and 
rose  from  her  chair. 

52 


M- 


CHAPTER   IV. 
POOR  RELATIONS 

ARY  turned  towards  the  door. 

She  saw  a  thin  and  bearded  man  advancing 
from  the   shadows  into  the  pale  light  cast   by 
the  candles.     She    rose,  holding    Christopher's  hand, 
and  moved  forward  with  a  hesitating  step. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  Sir  Matthew  gave  his 
hand  to  the  lady.  He  thrust  it  at  her  grudgingly 
and  drew  it  hurriedly  away,  like  a  man  who  regarded 
the  most  simple  act  of  politeness  as  a  concession 
either  to  insincerity  or  effeminacy.  He  mumbled 
certain  words  which  signified  a  greeting  but  sounded 
like  a  contradiction  ;  glanced  down  at  his  nephew, 
whose  proffered  hand  he  only  half  accepted,  and  that 
with  a  bad  grace  and  something  of  an  amused  snort ; 
and  then  he  moved  gratefully  away  to  the  other  side 
of  the  hearth,  picking  up  the  paper  as  he  went,  and 
inquiring  of  Miss  Grafton,  with  a  kind  of  savage 
humour,  if  she  found  the  excitement  of  life  too  much 
for  her. 

The  baronet  was  a  man  of  over  fifty  years  of  age. 
He  was  thin,  square-shouldered,  and  walked  with  a 
stoop.  The  most  remarkable  feature  in  his  copper- 
coloured  face  was  the  long-haired  eyebrows,  which 
twitched  and  worked  with  a  ceaseless  mobility.  These 

53 


The  Shadow 

reddish  eyebrows  almost  wholly  obscured  the  eyes, 
which  seemed  in  the  very  occasional  glimpses  one 
obtained  of  them  to  be  engaged  in  cracking  flints 
for  some  macadamised  by-way  of  sardonic  laughter. 

The  forehead  was  square  and  broad,  not  high ; 
the  colour  of  the  hair,  which  was  thin  and  ended 
in  a  curl  over  the  nape  of  the  neck,  like  a  pug  dog's 
tail,  was  a  dark  brown  inclining  to  grey.  His  mous- 
tache and  beard  were  reddish-brown.  He  presented 
the  general  appearance  of  a  well-bred,  boorish,  and 
untidy  countryman. 

Mary  observed  that  the  hand  which  she  had  touched 
for  a  moment  was  hard,  stone  cold,  and  covered  with 
rough  hair.  Christopher  noticed  only  the  twitching 
eyebrows  and  the  long  hairs  projecting  from  the 
nostrils. 

When  the  butler  announced  that  dinner  was  served, 
Isabel  led  the  way  from  the  room,  followed  at  the 
length  of  her  sweeping  train  by  Mary  and  Christopher 
hand- in-hand.  Sir  Matthew  was  still  reading  the 
paper  when  they  passed  through  the  doorway. 

Dinner  was  served  in  a  small  panelled  room  with 
a  handsome  fireplace,  where  a  wood  fire  of  noble  logs 
made  a  pleasant  perfume.  The  table  was  lighted  by 
candles  and  shone  with  silver  and  glass.  A  butler 
and  one  footman  waited  on  the  little  party. 

Christopher  turned  pale  when  he  saw  that  his 
mother  was  to  sit  on  one  side  of  the  table  and  he 
on  the  other. 

Sir  Matthew  arrived  in  the  room  before  they  had 
taken  their  seats.  As  soon  as  he  was  in  his  chair 
he  began  to  speak  to  his  sister,  pushing  his  forks 

54 


Poor    Relations 

and  knives  forward,  resting  his  forearms  on  the  table, 
and  bending  down  his  face  close  to  his  hands  as 
if  those  little  eyes  of  his  were  conducting  a  topo- 
graphical examination  of  the  wrinkles.  His  voice  was 
pleasant  and  scholarly,  but  the  enunciation  pedantic  ; 
he  spoke  with  an  amused  contempt  and  a  disdainful 
ridicule,  his  eyes  glittering,  the  bushy  brows  twitching 
with  a  kind  of  hairy  laughter. 

The  servants  brought  soup  to  the  others,  but  none 
to  Sir  Matthew,  who  continued  to  talk  in  the  same 
stinging  and  amused  fashion  to  his  sister  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table.  Sometimes  he  would  lift  a  hand 
and  examine  the  finger-nails  close  to  his  eyes.  Miss 
Grafton,  who  listened  to  his  flowing  discourse,  and 
occasionally  said  "  Yes,"  or  "  Really  ?  "  or  "  How  pre- 
posterous ! "  or  "  My  dear  Matthew !  "  continually 
glanced  at  Christopher  with  the  superintending  eye 
of  a  schoolmistress.  The  soup  was  hot,  and  poor 
Christopher  committed  the  blunder  of  blowing  noisily 
into  his  spoon.  "There  is  no  train  to  catch,"  said 
his  Aunt  Isabel  in  a  swift  aside. 

Sir  Matthew  talked  of  many  subjects,  treating  them 
all  with  an  impartial  and  amused  disdain.  Mary 
Grafton  gathered  that  he  was  at  odds  with  the  local 
clergyman,  and  that  he  greatly  relished  the  discovery 
that  more  than  fifty  pounds  were  required  to  repair 
the  lead  roof  of  one  of  the  aisles  through  which  rain 
had  long  been  making  its  way.  She  also  gathered 
that  none  of  Sir  Matthew's  farmers  understood  their 
business,  that  the  local  authorities  were  a  set  of  ignorant 
demagogues,  that  a  politician  who  had  made  a  speech 
on  the  previous  day  was  an  egregious  ass,  that  an 

55 


The  Shadow 

author  whom  Sir  Matthew  had  done  the  honour  of 
reading  that  afternoon  was  a  prodigious  idiot,  and  that 
a  scientific  discovery,  of  which  the  newspapers  were 
making  an  inordinate  fuss  just  then,  was  rather  older 
than  someone  named  Archimedes. 

It  will  be  easily  imagined  that  this  dinner  was  some- 
thing of  an  ordeal  for  the  two  travellers  arrived  in 
civilisation  from  the  prairie  and  the  steerage.  When 
a  dish  was  presented  to  Christopher  he  had  not  the 
least  idea  in  the  world  what  to  do  with  it. 

"  You  had  better  help  him,  John,"  said  Miss  Grafton, 
in  her  sharp  voice. 

To  Mary,  who  was  the  first  to  receive  dishes,  the  like 
of  which  she  had  never  seen  before,  the  difficulties  were 
equally  great ;  nor  did  she  know,  among  so  many 
knives  and  forks,  even  when  she  had  surmounted  the 
difficulty  of  helping  herself  from  a  dish,  what  instru- 
ments to  employ  for  its  consumption.  Such  an  in- 
vention as  a  fish-knife,  for  instance,  was  something 
quite  new  to  her. 

But  not  for  herself  did  she  feel  the  trial  of  this 
dinner.  Her  heart  knew  everything  that  Christopher 
was  suffering  and  yearned  towards  him.  She  would 
look  across  the  table  and  give  him  little  encouraging 
smiles — glances  which  were  not  lost  upon  Isabel 
Grafton — and  her  eyes  on  these  occasions  seemed 
to  say,  "  Don't  be  afraid,  my  son ;  I  am  with  you  ; 
these  people  are  nothing  to  us." 

The  only  conversation  between  Isabel  and  Mary 
concerned  the  dishes,  and  was  in  the  nature  of  asides. 
For  the  most  part,  Mary  sat  silent  through  this  meal. 
Christopher  opened  his  mouth  only  to  eat. 


Poor    Relations 

At  the  conclusion  of  dinner,  Sir  Matthew  followed 
the  others  to  the  drawing-room,  and  taking  up  the 
paper,  which  he  held  close  to  his  eyebrows,  at  once 
began  to  read.  He  did  not  retire  entirely  into  him- 
self, but  every  now  and  then,  with  a  scornful  laugh, 
would  read  aloud  to  his  sister  some  particular  which 
amused  him.  Miss  Grafton  sat  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hearth,  working  with  needle  and  silks.  Mary 
and  Christopher  occupied  the  settee  between  the  two 
chairs.  Christopher  held  his  mother's  hand,  sat  close 
to  her  side,  and  watched  the  twitching  eyebrows  of  his 
uncle.  Whenever  Miss  Grafton  looked  up  from  her 
needlework  it  was  to  glance  at  Christopher.  Mary 
gazed  straight  before  her  at  the  fire. 

When  half  an  hour  had  passed,  Sir  Matthew 
dropped  the  paper,  and  arose  from  his  chair.  He 
bowed  to  Mary,  wishing  her  good-night,  and  saying  to 
his  sister,  "  Isabel,  I  shall  see  you  again,"  walked  to 
the  door. 

"  Christopher,"  said  Miss  Grafton,  and  pointed  to 
the  retiring  figure,  "go  and  open  the  door  for  Sir 
Matthew." 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Mary  said,  "  I  will  put, 
Christopher  to  bed  now,  if  I  may." 

Miss  Grafton  bowed.  "  It  is  quite  time,"  she  said. 
"  I  expect  you  are  tired  yourself,  and  would  rather  not 
come  down  again.  Breakfast  is  at  nine.  You  will  be 
called  at  eight."  She  gave  Mary  her  hand.  "  You  are 
sure  to  sleep  well,"  she  said. 

Christopher  made  an  addition  to  his  usual  prayer 
that  night.  He  prayed  at  his  mother's  knee  that  God 
would  make  everybody  kind  to  his  mother. 

57 


The  Shadow 

When  he  was  in  bed  there  came  a  diffident  tap  at 
the  door,  which  instantly  made  him  start  up  and  listen. 
He  had  recognised  the  knock.  Mary  went  to  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Ryder  had  come  to  inquire  whether  Mrs. 
Richard  really  intended  that  the  young  gentleman 
should  not  sleep  in  the  room  prepared  for  him.  When 
she  received  her  answer  the  little  woman  put  on  an 
ominous  expression,  but  made  no  reply.  She  glanced 
at  Mary — a  glance  which  seemed  to  be  a  warning — 
and  after  a  pause,  making  a  bow  to  the  inevitable, 
which  seemed  to  say,  "  Well,  you  will  have  to  bear  the 
consequences,"  the  little  black  rat  paced  away  on  her 
silent  feet,  and  Mary  closed  the  door. 

"  They  aren't  going  to  take  me  away  ? "  inquired 
Christopher  over  the  bedclothes.  His  mother  reas- 
sured him,  tucked  him  up  afresh,  kissed  his  forehead, 
and  bade  him  go  to  sleep  as  soon  as  he  could. 

While  Christopher  sank  into  the  feather  mattress 
of  a  boy's  dreams,  Mary  sat  in  an  armchair  before 
the  fire  thinking  out  the  problem  of  her  situation. 

"They  do  not  want  us  here,"  she  told  herself. 
"  They  are  not  glad  to  see  us.  They  do  not  mind 
showing  us  that  we  are  not  wanted.  In  fact,  we  are 
so  disagreeable  to  them  that  they  cannot  help  showing 
their  annoyance.  And  we  do  not  want  to  stay  here  ; 
it  is  not  our  wish  that  we  are  here  now.  Nothing 
would  make  us  happier  than  to  go  away.  How  can 
I  tell  them  this  ?  I  must  say  to  them,  We  would 
rather  go  away  ;  will  you  help  me  to  find  employ- 
ment ?  If  I  can  bring  myself  to  say  that  they  ought 
to  be  glad.  It  would  relieve  them  of  our  presence." 

58 


Poor    Relations 

Later  in  her  musings  the  sorrowful  expression  of 
her  face  gave  way  to  one  of  determination  and  energy. 
"  I  will  not  stay  here,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  If  I 
have  to  beg  my  bread  I  will  go  away.  To-morrow 
I  will  tell  them,  and  to-morrow  we  will  go." 

Then  she  remembered  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith.  "  I 
was  a  stranger  to  her,"  she  said ;  "  to  these  people  I 
am  a  relation,  Christopher  is  of  their  blood."  Her 
heart  softened,  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  Why 
cannot  people  be  kind  like  that  good  woman  ? "  It 
occurred  to  her  that  she  should  write  to  the  Collector's 
wife,  tell  that  benevolent  heart  everything,  and  implore 
her  help.  She  got  up  from  the  chair  and,  after 
looking  jto  see  that  Christopher  was  sleeping  soundly, 
sat  down  at  the  writing-table. 

But  when  she  came  to  put  her  grievance  into  words 
it  vanished.  Of  what  could  she  complain  ?  Of  what 
cruelty  and  barbarism  had  her  relations  been  guilty  ? 
She  laid  down  the  pen  and  sat  with  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  looking  at  a  blank  sheet  of  paper. 

They  did  not  wake  in  the  morning  till  the  servant 
entered  with  hot  water.  When  the  curtains  were 
drawn  and  the  blinds  pulled  up  the  room  was  flooded 
with  sunshine.  They  wakened  with  the  song  of  birds 
in  their  ears,  and  saw  from  the  window  a  wide 
pleasaunce  of  green  garden,  descending  by  terraces 
and  stretching  past  clipped  hedges  into  an  infinite 
distance  of  river  and  woodland. 

Christopher  rose  with  fresh  courage,  longing  to 
explore  the  garden,  and  unafraid  of  Aunt  Isabel. 
Mary  felt  the  courage  of  her  overnight  rebellion  gone 
from  her. 

59 


The  Shadow 

They  were  down  before  nine  o'clock  and  went  into 
the  garden,  walking  in  the  sun  and  delighting  in 
the  English  flowers  which  they  had  never  seen  before. 

As  they  came  back  towards  the  house  they  saw 
Miss  Grafton  standing  at  a  door  waiting  for  them. 

She  looked  older  in  the  sunlight,  but  there  was 
a  suggestion  of  cheerfulness  in  the  face.  She  spoke 
about  the  beautiful  morning  and  called  them  to 
breakfast  with  some  show  of  hospitality. 

Sir  Matthew  appeared  in  a  loose  and  untidy  Norfolk 
suit,  carrying  a  bundle  of  letters ;  he  said  good- 
morning  in  a  general  way  as  he  entered,  and  going 
to  the  side-table,  proceeded  to  peer  and  sniff  among 
the  dishes  until  he  had  found  what  he  required,  when 
he  helped  himself  and  sat  down  to  the  table. 

As  he  masticated  his  food,  he  tore  open  envelopes, 
glanced  quickly  through  letters,  and  occasionally  read 
out  a  line  or  two  for  the  amusement  of  Miss  Grafton. 
Christopher  could  hardly  take  his  eyes  off  this  hairy 
man  with  the  twitching  eyebrows,  who  stirred  his 
coffee  round  and  round  with  his  spoon,  masticated 
with  a  ceaseless  munching  of  his  jawbone,  and  read 
letters  aloud  with  a  biting  intonation  which  suggested 
that  he  was  treating  the  words  as  part  of  his  breakfast. 

When  this  meal  was  over,  Miss  Grafton  said  to 
her  sister-in-law :  "  I  thought  I  would  take  you  and 
Christopher  to  do  some  shopping  this  morning. 
There  is  a  train  at  eleven.  Would  you  be  ready 
for  the  carriage  at  twenty  minutes  past  ten  ? " 

This  excursion,  Mary  found,  was  made  for  the 
purpose  of  providing  both  herself  and  Christopher 
with  clothes. 

60 


Poor    Relations 

The  presence  of  Christopher  on  this  journey  pre- 
vented Mary  from  speaking  as  she  wished  to  do 
to  Miss  Grafton.  Conversation  became  a  cross- 
examination  between  the  two  ladies  concerning 
Canada,  with  Miss  Grafton  for  questioner. 

Mary  found  herself  arrayed  in  widow's  weeds.  They 
returned  to  Glevering  by  the  same  train  in  which 
the  travellers  had  journeyed  on  the  previous  evening. 
On  going  to  her  room  Mary  discovered  that  a  door 
communicating  with  another  apartment  was  open,  and 
she  saw  that  Christopher's  things  had  been  placed 
in  this  dressing-room. 

When  tea  was  finished  Miss  Grafton  told  Chris- 
topher to  go  and  play  in  the  garden,  cautioning  him 
against  doing  any  damage  to  the  trees,  the  flowers, 
or  the  borders.  "You  will  have  something  brought 
up  to  you  to  your  room  at  seven  o'clock,"  she 
said  ;  "  you  won't  come  down  to  dinner." 

When  he  had  left  the  room  she  turned  to  Mary  and 
said,  "  We  have  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  discus- 
sing matters.  Perhaps  we  might  make  a  beginning 
now.  I  must  explain  to  you,  in  the  first  place,  that 
we  know  really  nothing  about  your  affairs.  My  brother 
wrote  to  Sir  Matthew  from  Vancouver  saying  that  you 
were  coming  to  England,  and  asking  him  to  befriend 
you  and  the  child.  He  made  no  mention  of  any  other 
arrangements.  We  received  a  cable  from  someone 
announcing  his  death  before  the  letter  arrived,  and 
that  is  really  all  we  know.  But  was  there  no  property 
of  any  kind  ?  His  farm,  I  suppose — if  the  accounts 
he  gave  of  it  were  true — must  have  been  worth  some- 
thing ?  I  understand  that  Sir  Matthew  sent  him  con- 

61 


The  Shadow 

siderable  sums  of  money  from  time  to  time  for  the 
purpose  of  improving  his  stock,  and  his  implements, 
and  his  buildings.  What  has  become  of  all  that 
money  ? " 

Mary  gave  an  account  of  the  lawyer's  visit  and  said 
that  she  knew  no  more. 

"  I  fear  you  have  been  remiss,"  said  Miss  Grafton, 
after  cross-examining  on  this  narrative.  "  As  far  as  I 
can  gather,  my  brother  utterly  neglected  his  farm, 
deceived  Sir  Matthew,  led  a  thoroughly  dissolute  life, 
and  you  did  nothing  whatever  to  stop  him.  Surely 
you  had  some  influence  with  him  ? " 

Mary  was  dumb. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  continued  Miss  Grafton ;  "  the 
position  is  this,  that  you  have  literally  no  means  what- 
ever?" 

"  None." 

"  And  no  relations  who  can  help  you  ? " 

Mary  shook  her  head.    "  My  father  is  dead,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  you  will  understand,"  resumed  Miss 
Grafton,  "that  while  Sir  Matthew  is  willing  to  do 
everything  to  assist  you,  he  cannot  but  feel  that,  after 
having  paid  Richard's  debts  again  and  again,  provided 
him  with  capital,  and  helped  him  to  make  a  start  in 
life,  it  is  something  of  an  injustice  that  he  should  be 
called  upon  to  provide  for  the  widow  and  son  for  the 
rest  of  his  days.  I  don't  say  this  to  make  you  un- 
happy. I  only  want  to  make  the  position  clear. 
And  having  said  this,  I  am  sure  you  will  do  everything 
to  comply  with  Sir  Matthew's  wishes  and  teach 
Christopher  to  be  particularly  careful  about  a  strict 
obedience." 

62 


Poor    Relations 

Mary  realised  that  her  affairs — no,  her  destiny,  had 
come  to  a  crisis. 

"I  know  very  little  of  the  world,"  she  began 
nervously. 

"Apparently  nothing  at  all,"  interrupted  Miss 
Grafton,  but  not  with  ill-nature. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask,"  Mary  continued,  "  whether 
it  is  possible  for  you  to  help  me  to  find  any  work  to 
do " 

"  Work  to  do !     What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  To  earn  my  own  living  and  Christopher's." 

"  You  must  put  that  idea  out  of  your  head." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  It  is  ridiculous." 

Mary's  face  paled  a  little,  but  her  voice  was  quite 
steady  when  she  said,  "  Do  you  know  how  bitter  a 
thing  it  is  to  be  dependent  ? " 

"  Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense,  my  dear  child !  You 
mustn't  talk  like  that." 

"  But  I  do."  This  was  said  with  a  quiet  insistence 
which  brought  a  faint  flush  into  Miss  Grafton's 
cheeks.  For  one  moment  she  looked  excessively  like 
a  cat  whose  patience  was  exhausted. 

"  You  are  not  yet  used  to  England  and  English 
ways,"  she  said  sharply.  "  Time  will  cure  you  of 
romantic  notions.  England  is  a  practical  country. 
We  are  not  a  sentimental  people.  You  must  try  to 
become  like  us.  A  little  less  sugar  in  your  relations 
with  Christopher  would  be  a  good  beginning." 

"  I  would  rather  go  away  and  earn  my  own  living." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  find  that  difficult." 

"  Is  it  impossible  ?  " 

63 


The  Shadow 

"  Quite." 

"  But  we  cannot  stay  here." 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  I  feel  we  cannot." 

"  Get  rid  of  sentiment." 

"  We  are  not  wanted." 

"  English  people  do  not  rush  into  friendships.  There 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  spend  an  agreeable 
time  with  us.  The  country  is  pretty  ;  there  are  one  or 
two  intelligent  neighbours.  Sir  Matthew  and  I  are 
not  ogres.  If  you  will  try  to  grow  into  our  ways  you 
will  not  find  that  it  is  irksome  to  stay  at  Glevering." 

"  But  I  cannot  be  a  dependent  all  my  life.  That  is 
dreadful  to  me." 

"  Circumstances  have  already  done  that  for  you, 
my  dear  child.  It  is  no  use  blinking  the  facts.  You 
married  Richard  with  your  eyes  open.  You  must  have 
known  the  kind  of  man  he  was.  And  you  did  not  use 
your  influence,  apparently,  to  save  him  from  ruin. 
The  result  is  dependence  on  the  head  of  the  family. 
You  must  put  up  with  it" 

"  I  cannot" 

"  Cannot !     What  else  can  you  do  ? " 

"  Anything.  I  would  rather  work  in  this  house  as 
a  servant  than  stay  as " 

"  Nonsense !  Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense,  my  dear 
creature!  You  really  mustn't  talk  such  high  faluti- 
nation  at  Glevering.  We  are  not  used  to  heroics. 
Take  my  advice,  do  not  quarrel  with  your  bread- 
and-butter.  Try  and  be  grateful  for  it" 

"Miss  Grafton,  is  there  nothing,  really  nothing, 
that  I  can  do  to  earn  my  own  living  ? " 

64 


Poor    Relations 

"  You  must  call  me  Isabel ;  I  am  your  sister-in-law ; 
you  are  a  member  of  the  family.  No ;  there  is  nothing 
that  you  can  do.  It  is  your  destiny  to  stay  here." 

"Do  you  mean  that  in  all  England  I  could  find 
no  work  ? " 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  could  do.  But  you  can 
do  that  here  as  well  as  anywhere  else." 

"  What  is  that  ? " 

"  You  are  young  ;  you  are  good-looking.  You 
might  marry  again." 

Mary  regarded  her  sister-in-law  with  a  dazed 
despair. 

"  But  in  that  case  you  would  have  to  leave  Chris- 
topher behind  you." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  again.  I  shall  never  leave 
Christopher." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  you  can  do  till  you 
try.  I  came  to  a  conclusion  about  you  last  night. 
You  are  a  blank  piece  of  paper !  I  said  to  myself, 
'  This  girl  has  never  yet  exerted  herself  in  any  way  ; 
she  has  not  yet  begun  to  live  ;  she  has  only  mooned.' 
We  shall  wake  you  up,  my  dear,  before  many  weeks 
are  over.  You  won't  know  yourself  for  the  same 
person  in  six  months." 

A  servant  entered  with  the  letter-bag. 

"  What  you  need  to  begin  with,"  said  Miss  Grafton, 
choosing  the  key  from  her  chatelaine,  "  is " — she 
waited  for  the  servant  to  close  the  door — "stiffness. 
You  are  inclined  to  flop.  Your  mind  is  what  we 
call  in  England  flabby.  You  will  see  life  from 
quite  another  standpoint  when  your  backbone  is 
stiffer,  it  will  give  you  more  vision." 

65  F 


The  Shadow 

While  she  was  speaking  she  opened  the  letter-bag 
and  sorted  the  contents. 

"Here  is  a  letter  for  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "An 
English  stamp  too.  I  didn't  know  that  you  had  friends 
in  England."  She  glanced  up  suspiciously  and  handed 
the  letter. 

"It  must  be  from  a  lady  I  met  on  board  ship." 

"  Indeed  !     What  was  her  name  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith." 

"My  dear  Mary!" 

Mary  looked  up  from  the  envelope. 

"  How  preposterous !  Mauritius  Smith !  Did  one 
ever  hear  such  a  name  ?  You'll  be  careful,  won't 
you,  not  to  establish  any  intimacy  with  people  of  that 
kind  ?  Acquaintances  made  on  board  ship,  without 
knowledge  of  the  world,  are  exceedingly  dangerous. 
Mauritius  Smith  !  I  really  never  heard  such  a  name 
in  my  life." 

At  dinner  that  night,  when  the  servants  had  retired, 
Miss  Grafton  looked  down  the  table  with  an  ice-cold 
smile,  and  said,  "  Matthew,  Mary  heard  this  afternoon 
from  a  friend  of  hers.  What  do  you  think  the  name 
was?" 

"  Possibly,"  replied  the  baronet,  "  it  was  Mauritius 
Smith." 

Even  Miss  Grafton  was  astonished.  And  so  great 
was  her  astonishment  that  she  did  not  smile  at  the 
really  inimitably  droll  manner  in  which  Sir  Matthew 
intonated  the  ridiculous  name.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
picked  up  a  dirty  rag  by  the  ends  of  his  fingers, 
exhibited  it  for  a  moment  to  the  mockery  of  the 
universe,  and  then  dropped  it  with  amused  disgust. 

66 


Poor    Relations 

Miss  Grafton,  recovering  her  composure,  searched 
her  brother's  face  for  an  explanation,  but  could  dis- 
cover nothing.  She  contented  herself  by  saying, 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  name  as  Mauritius  ? " 

"  It  certainly  tends,"  he  replied  acidly,  "  to  heighten 
the  comedy  of  Smith." 


67  F  2 


CHAPTER  V. 
MR.  AND   MRS.  GRINDLEY 

WITH  a  commissioner  for  oaths  on  one  side  of 
them,  and  a  pianoforte  teacher  on  the  other, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley  lived  in  tolerable  com- 
fort and  complete  composure  in  Merrick  Square, 
Trinity  Street,  London,  S.E.  They  would  have  lived 
with  equal  satisfaction  anywhere  else,  since  it  was 
the  opinion  of  Mr.  Grindley,  or  "  Old  Jack,"  as  his 
intimates  called  him,  that  a  man  who  gave  his  mind 
to  it  could  be  happy  at  the  North  Pole,  while  Mrs. 
Grindley  never  ceased  to  impress  upon  her  go-ahead 
married  children  that  it  was  neither  the  wall-papers 
nor  the  neighbourhood  which  made  a  home,  but  the 
heart. 

This  old  couple  had  lived  from  childhood  in  the 
Borough.  The  father  of  Old  Jack  had  occupied  a 
house  in  Trinity  Square  and  the  parents  of  Mrs. 
Grindley  had  occupied  a  house  in  Trinity  Street. 
When  Jack  Grindley  married  Charlotte  Close  they 
thought  themselves  very  fortunate  to  obtain  a  comfort- 
able villa  in  Merrick  Square,  so  near  to  the  old  folks, 
and  this  feeling  had  continued  with  them  ever  since, 
long  after  the  old  folks  had  been  gathered  to  their 
rest.  Furniture  removers  never  made  a  penny  out 
of  the  Grindleys. 

68 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley 

It  was  as  if  the  barometer  of  their  souls  had  been 
placed  at  Set  Fair  by  the  good  fairy  of  temperament 
at  birth  and  had  remained  at  that  position  ever  since. 
Whether  the  sun  shone  in  Merrick  Square  or  the  rain 
descended  on  the  leafless  trees  of  the  public  garden, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley  registered  no  change  in  their 
tempers.  Old  Jack  came  home  at  night  through  yellow 
fog  or  whirling  snowstorm  with  exactly  the  same 
degree  of  contentment  as  he  manifested  in  summer 
evenings  or  the  cool  of  the  spring.  Both  husband 
and  wife  were  like  that  cheerful  old  lady  who  said 
that  she  had  been  born  before  nerves  were  discovered. 
They  never  took  offence  ;  they  were  never  indignant ; 
they  were  always  agreeable,  thankful,  and  contented. 

The  parlour  of  this  old  couple  on  a  winter's  evening 
was  an  interior  which  an  artist  might  have  seized  to 
represent  the  spirit  of  London's  middle-class.  On  one 
side  of  the  bright  and  cheerful  hearth  sat  Old  Jack  in 
a  grandfather-chair,  one  finger  of  his  right  hand  curled 
over  the  stem  of  a  churchwarden  pipe  at  which  he 
puffed  with  deliberate  slowness,  his  legs  extended,  his 
slippered  feet  crossed,  a  bandana  handkerchief  pro- 
truding from  his  coat-tail  pocket,  and  the  Times 
newspaper  in  his  left  hand,  from  which  he  occasionally 
read  aloud.  And  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 
in  a  low  chair,  with  her  lap  spread  wide  to  provide 
accommodation  for  two  black  cats  with  yellow  eyes, 
sat  Charlotte  Grindley,  with  wool  and  knitting- 
needles,  her  dear  old  face,  with  its  fine  wrinkles 
and  its  greying  skin,  illuminated  by  a  gentle  and 
continual  smile,  her  lips  opening  every  now  and 
then  to  make  a  remark,  accompanied  by  a  moment's 

69 


The  Shadow 

rest  of  the  knitting-needles   and  a  glance   over   her 
spectacles  at  Mr.  Grindley. 

The  furniture  was  all  of  solid  and  plain  Victorian 
fashion  ;  the  pictures  on  the  walls  were  engravings  of 
Dore's  religious  work  ;  the  light  which  filled  the  little 
room  came  from  a  lacquered  gas-chandelier ;  never- 
theless there  was  something  bright,  happy,  and  even 
beautiful  in  this  London  interior,  which  was  perhaps  the 
spirit  of  its  happy  occupants.  It  seemed  to  be  full  of 
flowers  and  colour. 

Jack  Grindley  was  a  huge  old  fellow,  with  a  pink 
face,  blue  eyes,  and  white  hair.  His  whiskers  were 
combed  out  on  either  side  of  his  face  and  made  a  little 
fringe  under  his  chin.  He  had  the  habit  of  drawing 
back  his  eyelids  and  staring  with  a  gape  of  apparent 
astonishment  at  nothing  in  particular  when  a  question 
was  addressed  to  him  which  required  an  original  answer. 
He  was  slow-witted  and  given  to  prolonged  reflections 
which  seldom  reached  the  stage  of  verbal  expression. 
He  liked  to  sit  in  his  grandfather-chair,  puffing  slowly 
at  his  pipe,  staring  into  the  fire,  and  thinking  of  the 
world's  problems,  which  existed  chiefly  in  his  mind 
as  matters  of  commerce. 

He  was  a  shipping  agent  in  a  small  way  of  business, 
occupying  the  same  offices  in  St.  Mary  Axe  which  his 
father  and  grandfather  had  occupied  before  him.  His 
clients  dated  back  to  the  earliest  ledgers  on  the  shelves. 
The  firm  thought  more  of  keeping  up  its  reputation 
with  the  dead  than  of  extending  its  operations  among 
the  living.  Old  Jack  never  sought  business  ;  perhaps 
he  felt  that  other  people  had  to  make  a  living  as  well 
as  himself. 

70 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley 

Among  the  clients  of  Grindley  &  Son  was  the 
collector  of  jungle  produce. 

We  must  now  narrate  that  our  friend  the  Collector 
was  born  in  Curepipe,  Isle  of  Mauritius,  being  the  fifth 
son  of  Jonathan  Smith  of  Port  Louis,  a  violent  man 
and  an  exporter  of  rum  and  cocoanut  oil.  Jonathan  in 
a  sudden  fit  of  cheerfulness  had  named  his  fifth  son 
Mauritius,  declaring,  to  shame  his  other  children,  that 
this  fifth  son  should  grow  up  to  exemplify  the  Fifth 
Commandment,  and  that  one  day  he  would  prove  to 
be  the  greatest  ornament  of  the  island.  But  the  young 
Mauritius,  over  whose  unconscious  head  this  prophecy 
had  been  made,  having  survived  as  many  catastrophes 
in  infancy  as  the  only  sister  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who 
from  her  cradle,  he  tells  us,  was  the  butt  for  mischance 
to  shoot  arrows  at,  and  whose  childhood  was  "  marked 
by  perilous  escapes  from  the  most  extraordinary 
accidents "  —  Mauritius,  we  say,  having  survived  a 
calamitous  childhood  wherein  malaria  complicated  by 
bronchitis  played  a  Box  and  Cox  arrangement  in  his 
tittle  body,  manifested  such  a  detestation  of  rum  and 
cocoanut  oil,  and  showed  such  a  rebellious  spirit  to- 
wards his  father,  who  was  a  cruel  master,  a  bad  husband, 
and  a  violent  parent,  that  Jonathan  in  a  fit  of  temper 
Dne  day  kicked  him  out  of  doors,  convinced  that  a  child 
who  showed  so  little  respect  for  his  prophecy  concerning 
bhe  Fifth  Commandment,  and  who  had  squashed  so 
many  fingers  in  doors,  fallen  down  so  many  stairs, 
caught  so  many  diseases,  and  swallowed  so  many 
poisons,  could  only  be  reserved  for  the  hangman's  rope. 

In  this  way  it  came  about  that  Mauritius  went  to 
sea.  He  made  four  voyages  round  the  world  in  sailing- 

71 


The  Shadow 

ships,  and  having  kept  a  weather  eye  open  for  a 
pleasant  life  and  a  promising  future  wherever  he  went, 
settled  down  one  day  in  Selangor,  became  a  tobacco- 
planter,  and  without  surrendering  that  position  gradu- 
ally became  almost  everything  else  that  it  is  possible 
for  human  nature  to  become  in  the  Malayan  States. 
His  energy  was  incredible.  Not  content  with  ex- 
porting "nigger-head"  to  America,  and  trading  all 
over  the  considerable  region  of  the  peninsula,  this  red- 
headed explosion  of  nervous  energy  conceived  the 
idea  of  a  connexion  with  London  itself.  In  the  midst 
of  his  golden  dreams  the  name  of  his  father's  London 
agent  occurred  to  his  mind.  There  and  then  he  wrote 
to  Grindley  &  Son  suggesting  illimitable  possibilities 
of  trade  between  England  and  the  Malayan  States. 
To  this  letter  he  received  the  dry  reply  that  Grindley 
&  Son  would  be  pleased  to  open  an  account  with  the 
son  of  their  late  client,  Mr.  Jonathan  Smith,  of  Port 
Louis,  Mauritius.  Our  gentleman  was  elated.  By 
the  next  ship  sailing  for  England  he  sent  such  a  varied 
and  astonishing  consignment  of  jungle  produce  to  St. 
Mary  Axe  as  almost  took  Mr.  Grindley's  breath 
away,  while  it  threw  his  old  clerk  into  a  fit  of  laughter 
which  lasted  throughout  that  memorable  day. 

From  the  moment  when  Mauritius  established  com- 
mercial relations  with  London,  the  name  of  Grindley 
&  Son  figured  on  his  writing-paper,  on  his  office  door, 
and  in  his  advertisements  as  the  European  agents  of 
Mauritius  Smith,  Collector  of  Jungle  Produce. 

The  Collector  shortly  after  paid  his  first  visit  to 
England ;  he  was  then  thirty  years  of  age,  and  Mr. 
Grindley  was  kind  enough  to  show  his  Malayan  client 

72 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley 

some  private  hospitality  in  Merrick  Square.  Amongst 
other  business  done  before  he  departed,  the  Collector 
married  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Grindley's,  the  kind-hearted 
Annabel  Close,  described  by  the  rejoicing  bridegroom 
as  the  finest  export  ever  sent  out  by  England  to 
civilise  the  East  and  ennoble  humanity.  In  this 
manner  the  curt  and  commercial  relations  with 
Grindley  &  Son  had  assumed  a  friendly  and  even  a 
family  character,  and  whenever  Mauritius  and  his  wife 
came  to  London  on  a  flying  visit  they  always  stayed 
with  the  Grindleys  in  Merrick  Square. 

Some  few  days  after  the  Smiths  had  parted  from 
Mary  Grafton  at  Liverpool,  Old  Jack  and  Mauritius 
sat  together  talking  business  in  the  parlour,  while 
Mrs.  Grindley  and  Annabel  discussed  feminine  affairs 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  shan't  live  to  see  it,"  said  Old  Jack,  in  his  quiet 
and  laborious  way,  "but  you  fellows  in  the  East,  if 
you  know  your  business,  will  bring  about  sooner  or 
later,  as  the  case  may  be,  such  a  revolution  in  trade  as 
the  world  has  never  known." 

"  Give  me  the  hint,  Uncle,  and  you  shall  stand  in," 
replied  Mauritius,  stretching  his  legs.  "  Half  profits, 
I  give  you  my  word.  If  my  word  isn't  enough,  I'll 
knock  on  the  wall  for  the  commissioner  of  oaths." 

Old  Jack  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  gaping 
towards  the  looking-glass  over  the  mantelpiece  which 
reflected  the  white  globes  of  the  gas  chandelier, 
demanded,  "  What  is  trade  ? "  He  asked  the  question 
as  if  he  were  propounding  some  universal  riddle. 

"  Trade,"  said  Mauritius  promptly,  "  is  the  breath  of 
life.  Without  the  brisk  trader,  whose  brain  is  never 

73 


The  Shadow 

still,  civilisation  would  peter  out,  cities  would  become 
deserts,  and  humanity  itself  revert  to  savagery.  Trade 
is  action,  energy,  achievement.  It  is  the  plunging 
watercourse,  and  not  the  Sahara.  Ha,  ha !  Do  I 
speak  truth  ?  Have  at  it  again.  Trade,  Uncle,  is  the 
turning  wheel,  the  roaring  wind,  the  resistless  tide.  I 
would  sooner  have  done  what  I  have  done  as  trader, 
than  have  written  Gray's  Elegy,  taken  Quebec,  or 
built  the  Monument.  Blow  the  trumpet ! " 

"  Trade,"  said  Old  Jack,  very  solemnly,  "  is  woman." 

Mauritius  was  about  to  speak,  but  Old  Jack  raised 
a  rebukeful  finger  and  continued :  "  When  you  take  a 
walk  through  the  streets  of  a  great  city,  study  the 
shops.  You  will  find,  my  boy,  that  nine  out  of  ten 
contain  feminine  goods.  What  are  the  millions 
of  men  in  cotton  factories,  silk  factories,  and  diamond 
mines  working  day  and  night  to  supply  ?  The 
demands  of  women.  Wonderful  !  And  now,  con- 
sider this :  What  would  happen  to  the  trade  of  the 
world  if  we  took  purse  and  reticule  from  the  women 
of  Europe  and  clapped  'em  all  under  lock  and  key  ? " 

"  There'd  be  a  slump,  Uncle  ! "  exclaimed  Mauritius. 

"  It  would  be  ruin.  And  now  consider  this,  which 
is  the  other  side  of  my  argument :  What  will  be  the 
effect  on  the  trade  of  the  world,  when  the  millions  of 
women  in  Asia  are  converted  to  Western  ideas — it's 
bound  to  come,  mind  you — when  all  these  millions  of 
poor  heathen  women,  each  with  a  purse  and  a  little 
bag  in  her  hand,  go  shopping  in  the  Regent  Street  of 
India,  the  Bond  Street  of  China,  the  Oxford  Street  of 
Turkey  ?  What  will  be  the  effect  on  trade  ?  Some- 
thing considerable,  something  immense." 

74 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley 

Mauritius  jumped  up.  "  Uncle,"  he  cried,  "  there's 
money  in  it ! " 

"  My  boy,"  said  Old  Jack,  "  when  you  return  you 
keep  this  idea  at  the  back  of  your  head.  Don't 
forget  it  Let  it  germinate.  And  don't  you  ever 
hinder  a  missionary  who  is  doing  his  work  honestly 
and  justly." 

The  knock  of  a  postman  interrupted  them,  and 
Mauritius,  still  exclaiming  at  Old  Jack's  idea,  moved 
towards  the  door. 

"  Someone  will  bring  the  letters,"  said  Mr.  Grindley. 
"  Rest,  Mauritius.  Repose  yourself.  I've  often  told 
you,  you're  too  jerky.  What  you  want  is  quiet. 
Quiet  is  good  for  the  human  race.  That  is  why  the 
Almighty  commanded  one  day's  rest  in  the  seven.  I 
sit  here,  Mauritius,  when  my  day's  work  is  done,  and 
I  smoke  my  pipe — slowly,  mark  you  —  and  think. 
Wonderful  things  come  to  a  man  when  he  thinks.  I 
believe  that  if  I  live  long  enough  I  shall  think  out 
things  in  trade  which  will  revolutionise  the  world. 
If  I  could  benefit  my  fellow-men  in  that  way,  I  should 
go  with  less  misgiving  to  my  account.  It  isn't  enough, 
Mauritius,  to  earn  daily  bread  for  ourselves  ;  we  must 
see  what  we  can  do  for  the  daily  bread  of  other  people. 
There's  religion  in  trade.  Most  of  the  political  problems 
come  from  selfishness  in  business.  Christianise  com- 
merce, and  you  save  the  world  That  is  what  I 
think  of  as  I  sit  here  smoking  my  pipe  when  the  day's 
work  is  over." 

The  benevolent  ruminations  df  the  old  gentleman 
were  presently  interrupted  by  the  sudden  and  excited 
appearance  of  Annabel,  who  opened  the  door  with 

75 


The  Shadow 

such  a  rush  that  the  gas  wavered  in  the  globes.  She 
advanced  rapidly  to  Mauritius  with  a  letter  in  her 
hand,  her  face  agitated,  her  eyes  expressing  the 
vividest  anxiety.  Old  Jack  drew  back  his  eyelids 
and  gaped  towards  the  looking-glass.  Mrs.  Grindley 
followed  her  niece  at  a  much  more  leisurely  pace,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her.  The  two  black  cats  rose 
to  greet  the  old  lady. 

"  Mauritius,"  exclaimed  the  Collector's  wife,  "  she 
has  written  me  the  most  heart-rending  letter  that  ever 
came  through  the  post.  Read  it.  The  poor  thing  is 
utterly  wretched.  We  must  certainly  do  something. 
I  should  like  to  telegraph  to-night,  only  it's  too  late. 
Aunt  Charlotte  says — don't  you,  Aunt  ? — that  it  would 
be  murder  to  leave  her  with  those  cruel  people.  Just 
imagine,  Uncle  Jack,  she  and  her  poor  little  boy 
received  like  utter  strangers,  treated  like  poor  relations, 
and  made  to  feel  that  they  are  most  unwelcome. 
Aunt  Charlotte  understands  how  dreadful  it  must  be. 
And  the  poor  thing  writes  to  ask  me  if  I  can  help  to 
find  her  some  work  in  London.  Anything !  That  is 
her  own  word,  Uncle  Jack — anything!  Isn't  it  too 
pathetic  ?  Mauritius,  did  you  ever  read  such  a  letter 
in  your  life  ? " 

Mrs.  Grindley  throughout  this  speech  had  heaved 
up  her  hands  and  exposed  the  palms  with  something 
of  the  mournful  air  of  an  imperfect  conjurer  anxious 
to  convince  an  audience  of  particularly  sharp  and 
knowing  boys  that  he  has  nothing  concealed  in  his 
sleeves  ;  but  at  the  conclusion  she  placed  these  hands 
on  the  agitated  arms  of  her  niece  and  pressing  them 
with  comfort,  said  in  a  pacifying  and  gently  correct- 

76 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley 

ing  tone  of  voice  :  "  But  you  must  be  calm,  my  dear. 
Nothing  can  be  done  without  calm ;  can  it,  Jack 
dear?" 

The  old  gentleman  removed  his  pipe  the  eighth  of 
an  inch  from  his  lips,  and  replied,  "  Nothing." 

Annabel  raced  on  with  a  catalogue  of  Mary  Grafton's 
virtues,  and  a  tale  of  all  the  sufferings  that  sweet  and 
amiable  creature  had  to  bear  at  the  hands  of  her 
rich  and  atrocious  relations.  Mauritius  handed  the 
letter  to  Old  Jack,  and  said  to  Annabel :  "  Kind  hearts 
are  more  than  coronets.  What  do  you  propose  ? " 

"  We  must  get  them  away  at  once,"  replied  Annabel. 

"Certainly," said  Mauritius,  winking  at  Mrs.  Grindley, 
who  was  now  seated  with  one  of  the  black  cats  in 
her  lap. 

"  It  would  be  perfectly  cruel  to  leave  them  there," 
said  Annabel,  watching  the  effect  of  Mary's  letter  on 
her  uncle. 

'*  We  must  telegraph  the  money  to  pay  their  fares," 
said  Mauritius,  "  and  immediately  endow  an  insti- 
tution providing  shelter,  food,  and  raiment  for  all 
widows  and  orphans  afflicted  with  rich  and  titled 
relations." 

"  We  can  find  them  work,"  said  Annabel. 

"  What  work  do  you  suggest,  angel  ? "  inquired  the 
Collector.  "  The  widow  might  open  a  hair-dressing 
establishment  in  Regent  Street  and  the  boy  set  up 
as  bootblack  outside  the  Royal  Exchange." 

"  There  must  be  something  she  could  do,"  said 
Annabel. 

"  For  instance,  pet  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  there  must  be  something." 
77 


The  Shadow 

Mr.  Grindley  finished  the  letter,  folded  it,  and 
handed  it  back  to  Annabel.  "  Isn't  it,"  she  cried,  "  a 
letter  to  break  one's  heart  ? " 

Old  Jack  drew  back  his  eyelids,  gaped,  and  rounded 
his  mouth  to  a  small  o.  After  a  pause  he  said,  "  The 
lady  is  perhaps  a  trifle  fanciful." 

Mrs.  Grindley  immediately  confessed,  "  The  same 
idea  crossed  my  mind  in  the  drawing-room,  Annabel 
dear." 

"  Mark  you,"  said  Old  Jack,  with  his  usual  delibera- 
tion, "  I  don't  say  that  the  lady  has  nothing  to 
complain  about.  But  I  put  the  question,  Is  she  not, 
perhaps,  a  trifle  fanciful  ? " 

"  You  see  what  your  uncle  means,  dear,"  explained 
Mrs.  Grindley.  "  He  doesn't  for  a  moment  imply 
that  your  friend  says  what  is  not  true  ;  but  he  wonders 
whether,  perhaps,  she  does  not  expect  rather  more 
from  the  world  than  the  world  can  give.  That  is  it, 
isn't  it,  Jack  dear  ?  " 

Annabel  explained  at  great  length  that  there  was 
never  in  the  world  before  a  person  so  modest  and 
patient  as  Mary  Grafton,  certainly  nobody  less  exacting. 

Mauritius  burst  out  laughing.  "  My  dear  Uncle, 
my  dear  Aunt,"  said  he,  "  you  might  as  well  try  to 
freeze  the  Thames  in  summer  as  turn  the  heart  of 
my  incomparable  wife  from  her  intention  of  providing 
for  this  interesting  young  widow  and  her  poor  father- 
less boy.  It  is  not  the  smallest  use  to  oppose  her ; 
all  we  can  do  is  to  mitigate  her  benevolence.  I 
shall  consider  myself  fortunate  if  this  particular  attack 
of  heart  trouble  leaves  me  with  enough  money  to  get 
back  to  Selangor." 

78 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley 

Annabel  interrupted  her  husband.  "  Oh,  Auntie," 
she  cried,  with  a  finger  at  her  lip,  "  I  have  got  an 
idea !  Would  you  " — she  paused,  and  then  knelt 
down  beside  Mrs.  Grindley,  stroking  the  cat  and 
gazing  affectionately  into  the  old  lady's  eyes — "  would 
you  ask  them  here  for  a  few  days  while  we  see  what 
can  be  done  ? " 

"  Admirable  !  Excellent !  "  cried  Mauritius,  with 
great  gusto.  "Birdie,  that  is  the  brightest  idea  I 
have  ever  heard  from  your  lips.  Hitherto  we  our- 
selves have  befriended  and  provided  for  the  neces- 
sitous ;  now,  other  people  shall  share  our  delights. 
We  won't  be  selfish  any  longer.  Let  them  have 
our  room,  Uncle.  Annabel  and  I  will  return  to 
Selangor  immediately — with  pleasure  !  " 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  spent  in  a  prolonged 
conference  as  to  what  could  be  done  for  Mary 
Grafton.  Neither  Mr.  Grindley  nor  his  wife  seemed 
to  think  that  much  good  could  be  effected  by 
inviting  the  widow  to  Merrick  Square.  The  old 
people  appeared  to  think  that  there  was  no  occasion 
for  hurry.  They  counselled  reflection  and  calm. 

Finally,  since  Annabel  insisted  that  something 
must  be  done,  Old  Jack,  after  having  thought  the 
matter  over  in  complete  silence  for  twenty  minutes, 
delivered  judgment  in  the  following  words  : — 

"Annabel,"  he  said,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
"you  and  Mauritius  had  better  run  down  to  this 
place,  pay  her  a  visit,  and  see  for  yourselves  how 
the  land  lies.  One  interview  is  worth  a  mile  of  corre- 
spondence. And  don't  make  yourselves  responsible 
for  anything  till  you  have  seen  her." 

79 


The  Shadow 

"  Uncle,"  cried  Mauritius,  "  that  is  a  good  idea.  We 
will  take  her  by  surprise." 

"  And  do  tell  the  poor  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Grindley, 
"  that  London  is  a  hard  place  for  a  woman  to  earn 
her  daily  bread  in.  If  she  can  possibly  bring  herself 
to  put  up  with  her  present  circumstances,  I  am  sure 
it  would  be  better  for  her." 

"  Much  better,"  said  Old  Jack. 


80 


CHAPTER   VI. 
WE  MUST  SUFFER 


was  quick  in  perception.  He  had 
^  seen  at  once,  without  understanding  it,  that  his 
mother  and  he  had  come  to  a  house  where  they 
were  not  wanted.  His  child's  mind,  which  had  some- 
thing of  the  infallibility  of  feminine  instinct,  knew 
that  his  mother's  distress  was  chiefly  on  his  own 
account.  As  he  was  a  brave  boy,  and  had  a  great 
love  for  his  mother,  he  resolutely  set  himself  to  relieve 
her  anxiety. 

To  begin  with,  he  assured  her  that  he  did  not 
mind  lying  alone  in  bed  while  she  was  downstairs  in 
the  dining-room.  He  never  told  her  how  his  heart 
thumped  under  the  blankets  when  he  heard  the  door 
of  her  bedroom  open,  although  he  knew  it  must  be 
the  housemaid  come  to  tidy  the  room  for  the  night 
His  fear  was  that  the  nocturnal  visitor  was  Mrs. 
Ryder.  The  little  rat-like  housekeeper,  passing  silently 
through  the  long  corridors  of  the  house,  always  struck 
a  chill  through  him. 

He  felt,  too,  that  it  would  ease  his  mother's  mind 
if  he  bore  himself  with  a  greater  cheerfulness  in  the 
house  and  grounds.  He  began  to  walk  about  with 
his  hands  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  to  lounge  in  chairs, 
to  whistle,  to  talk  to  his  mother  at  meals,  even  to 
laugh  at  his  uncle  and  aunt  behind  their  backs. 

Si  G 


The  Shadow 

This  new  manner  seemed  to  Mary  the  dawn  of  boy- 
hood ;  to  Miss  Grafton  it  appeared  the  boy's  natural 
character,  which  had  been  momentarily  eclipsed  on  the 
first  day  of  his  arrival  by  nervousness. 

Nothing  pleased  Miss  Grafton  more  than  having 
somebody  to  correct.  She  never  went  through  the 
rooms  in  the  morning  without  finding  something  ill 
done  or  not  done  at  all.  She  had  one  of  those  ener- 
getic minds  which  seem  able,  not  to  discover,  but  to 
create  mistakes  in  the  work  of  other  people.  If  the 
universe  had  been  conducted  on  the  principles  of  a 
high  school,  Miss  Grafton  would  have  applied  for  the 
post  of  head-mistress,  and  there  would  have  been 
trouble  among  the  stars. 

In  a  day  or  two,  it  was  quite  clear  that  Christopher's 
life  was  to  become  a  burden  to  him.  Not  only  was 
he  corrected  for  this  and  that,  but  his  day  was  mapped 
out  for  him  with  the  precise  routine  of  a  prison  dis- 
cipline. He  was  perpetually  being  told  not  to  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  not  to  swing  his  leg  when  he  was 
reading,  not  to  dawdle  in  the  garden,  not  to  scrape 
his  plate,  and  not  to  make  so  much  noise  when  he  was 
eating  an  apple.  He  had  to  show  Miss  Grafton  his 
finger-nails  before  every  meal.  He  was  taught  to 
fetch  cushions  and  footstools  ;  to  hold  wool  between 
his  hands  for  Miss  Grafton  to  wind  ;  to  cut  the  leaves 
of  interminable  books  ;  to  sit  perfectly  still  and  silent 
when  his  elders  were  talking  ;  and  a  great  many  other 
excellent  habits  for  a  boy  to  learn  at  the  hands  of  a 
sweet  and  affectionate  nature. 

Miss  Grafton  made  him  read  aloud  from  history  and 
geography  books.  She  taught  him  the  botanical 

82 


We  Must  Suffer 

names  of  flowers.  She  made  him  write  in  a  copy- 
book, and  gave  him  dictation,  and  set  him  sums. 
"  We  must  find  out,"  she  said  to  Mary,  "  what  the  boy 
really  does  know,  if  he  knows  anything  at  all." 

When  he  went  for  a  walk  with  his  aunt  and  mother, 
Miss  Grafton  would  bid  him  go  on  ahead,  and 
throughout  the  excursion  would  say,  "  Head  up,  Chris- 
topher," or  "  Keep  your  shoulders  back,"  or  "  Don't 
swing  your  arms  like  that." 

The  happiest  time  in  his  day,  next  to  the  delightful 
hours  spent  with  his  mother  and  his  drawing-book  in 
the  seclusion  of  her  bedroom,  was  the  daily  ride  with 
a  groom.  Christopher  rode  beautifully,  and  all  the 
efforts  of  the  English  groom  to  give  him  a  stiff  and 
formal  seat  utterly  failed  of  their  mark.  When  they 
got  upon  the  open  down,  and  the  groom,  forgetting 
his  instructions,  gave  himself  up  to  the  zest  of  a  gallop, 
Christopher  was  almost  wildly  happy. 

The  fine  air  reminded  him  of  the  prairie,  the  rush 
through  the  wind  was  a  breath  of  freedom,  the  joy  of 
the  motion  was  a  glorious  exhilaration  of  his  senses. 

When  he  came  back  from  these  gallops,  with  pink 
cheeks  and  glowing  eyes,  Mary  almost  accustomed 
herself  to  the  thought  that  it  would  be  selfish  to 
remove  him  from  Glevering. 

But  the  continual  fretting  of  Miss  Grafton  was  too 
insistent  for  this  idea  to  become  a  conviction.  The 
boy  did  not  grumble  or  complain,  but  his  mother  saw 
that  his  nerves  were  beginning  to  be  jagged  and  torn. 
She  felt  that  this  condition  of  things  would  grow  worse. 
Every  day  tightened  the  screw  and  strengthened  the 
chain. 

83  G   2 


The  Shadow 

As  we  have  seen,  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith. 

On  the  morning  following  the  despatch  of  this 
letter,  while  Miss  Grafton  was  going  her  rounds, 
Mary  went  with  Christopher  into  the  unused  chapel 
which  formed  the  terminus  of  one  of  the  wings,  and 
where  she  had  often  gone  for  quiet  and  repose  and 
resignation  since  her  arrival  at  Glevering. 

This  little  exquisite  chapel  was  dark  and  mysterious. 
The  beautiful  painted  window  above  the  communion 
table,  with  its  graceful  tracery  and  glass  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  was  the  only  means  by  which  the  light 
of  the  outside  world  could  manifest  itself.  The  screen, 
the  waggon-roof,  the  choir-stalls,  and  the  pews,  were 
all  of  black  oak.  It  was  only  when  one  had  rested 
for  several  moments  in  this  sacred  place,  consecrated 
by  centuries  of  family  prayer,  that  the  charm  of  its 
conception  and  the  extreme  beauty  of  its  decoration 
stole  into  the  mind  with  a  gradual  awe-inspiring 
wonder. 

Mary  was  reminded  by  this  chapel  of  her  convent 
life,  the  days  of  her  childhood,  her  earliest  knowledge 
of  God,  her  first  communion,  and  the  awakening  under- 
standing of  her  soul. 

It  bathed  her  in  a  recreating  peace  to  come  and  sit 
in  one  of  the  old  pews,  and  let  the  mystery  of  the 
sanctuary  breathe  out  towards  her  from  under  the  dim 
window  and  through  the  shadows  of  the  choir.  She 
prayed  in  the  silence  of  her  soul,  sitting  there  with 
folded  hands  and  open  eyes.  Those  prayers  of  the 
young  mother  in  the  chapel  were  not  worded  petitions, 
but  yearning  supplications  of  the  soul — outbreathings 
of  her  pure  spirit  to  the  Father  of  spirits. 

84 


We   Must  Suffer 

Sometimes  when  Christopher  was  at  lessons  with 
Miss  Grafton,  Mary  would  enter  the  chapel,  close  the 
great  door  behind  her,  and  advancing  slowly  and  with 
bowed  head  to  the  sanctuary,  would  kneel  before 
the  Holy  of  Holies  and  receive  into  her  soul  a  sacra- 
ment not  offered  with  hands. 

She  had  been  denied  the  consolations  of  her  church 
ever  since  her  marriage  and  throughout  her  mother- 
hood. But  worship  was  an  instinct  of  her  being. 
Always  her  heart  had  been  an  altar.  Never  had  she 
ceased  to  pray.  Her  thoughts  were  a  continual  litany, 
her  whole  life  was  lived  under  the  influence  of  the 
idea  of  eternity,  the  conviction  of  God. 

The  Mother-Superior  of  her  convent  had  given  the 
young  girl  when  she  departed  for  her  father's  house  a 
little  book  of  extracts  from  the  writings  of  Fenelon. 
This  book  had  ever  since  been  to  her  a  perpetual  and 
increasing  support.  It  was  the  only  survival  of  her 
wedding-presents.  She  had  read  it  so  often  that  she 
now  knew  it  almost  word  for  word,  and  in  her  prayers 
many  of  the  most  earnest  cries  which  rushed  upward 
from  her  soul  uttered  themselves  to  God  in  the 
language  of  the  saintly  Frenchman. 

This  morning,  as  she  sat  with  Christopher's  hand 
in  hers,  feeling  the  sacred  spell  of  the  chapel  closing 
about  her  soul  like  invisible  wings,  a  passage  from  the 
little  book  of  consolation  came  suddenly  and  unac- 
countably into  her  mind  with  a  fresh  significance. 

These  were  the  words  : 

"  We  must  suffer  not  only  in  submission  to  the  will  of 
Providence,  for  the  purification  of  our  souls  and  the  perfection 
of  our  virtues,  but  often  for  the  success  of  those  designs  of  which 

35 


The  Shadow 

God  has  made  us  the  instruments.  Whoever  desires  to  do 
good  must  be  willing,  and  must  expect  to  suffer.  You  must 
arm  yourselves  with  courage  and  patience.  You  must  be  willing 
to  endure  tribulations  and  trials  of  all  sorts  which  -would  over- 
whelm you  were  you  not  supported  by  a  well-established  faith 
and  charity.  The  world  will  blame,  will  tempt  you  ;  your 
friends  and  your  enemies  may  appear  to  combine  against  your 
good  designs.  Those  even  with  whom  you  are  united  to 
promote  a  good  work  may  be  a  snare  to  you.  Opposite  tempera- 
ments, different  views,  contrary  habits,  may  cause  you  great 
suffering  from  those  upon  whom  you  have  depended  for  support 
and  consolation.  Their  defects  and  yours  will  perpetually  clash 
in  your  intercourse  with  them.  If  true  charity  does  not  soften 
these  difficulties,  if  a  more  than  common  virtue  does  not  sustain 
you  under  these  bitter  trials,  if  an  unfailing  and  fervent  piety 
does  not  render  this  yoke  easy  to  you,  you  will  sink  under  it." 

The  illumination  which  came  to  her  mind  with  the 
recurrence  of  these  familiar  words  was  quiet,  gradual, 
and  quite  unstartling ;  but  it  revealed  to  her  in  a  clear 
and  steady  light  a  truth  hitherto  but  dimly  guessed. 
She  became  aware  of  an  insufficiency  in  herself  which 
nothing  human  could  make  adequate,  and  of  an  in- 
completeness in  the  world  which  nothing  mortal  could 
make  perfect.  She  realised  at  that  moment  the 
impossibility  of  escape  from  the  world's  doom. 
"  We  must  suffer." 

The  world's  antagonism  to  peace,  to  innocence,  and 
to  love,  assumed  in  her  mind  the  qualities  of  peril. 

Human  society  nowhere  on  the  earth  could  do 
anything  but  clash  upon  the  secret  thoughts  of  the 
soul.  Life  was  something  hard,  hostile,  difficult.  The 
earth  was  not  kind.  Then  she  perceived  a  greater 
truth.  The  spirit  existed  here  in  exile  from  God. 
Only  by  turning  to  God  in  all  things  could  that  exile 

86 


We  Must  Suffer 

be  endured.  In  a  degree  she  had  never  before  realised, 
her  frightened  soul  apprehended  the  tremendous  need 
of  God.  Without  unfailing  and  fervent  piety  the  soul 
must  sink  under  the  burdens  of  the  world.  Without 
God  the  heart  must  break,  the  reason  perish  in  a  cry 
of  madness. 

She  loosed  her  hand  gently  from  her  son's,  and 
leaning  forward,  bowed  herself  down  under  the 
sheltering  wings  of  Infinite  Fatherhood. 

Christopher  waited  a  moment,  half-frightened  by 
this  silent  action,  this  new  experience ;  then,  feeling 
that  his  mother  was  suffering  some  distress  too  deep 
for  his  hands  to  reach  or  his  heart  to  fathom,  he 
kneeled  down  at  her  side,  and  prayed  God  to  make 
her  happy.  The  child  hoped  that  she  would  be  com- 
forted by  his  action  and  thought  that  she  would  put 
out  a  hand  and  touch  him.  But  the  mother's  prayer 
was  too  deep ;  she  was  quite  unconscious  that  he 
kneeled  at  her  side.  To  the  child  this  profound 
prayer  of  his  mother  was  a  terrible  isolation. 

They  had  left  the  door  ajar  which  gave  entrance 
to  the  chapel  from  the  hall.  They  were  on  their  knees 
when  the  jingle  of  Miss  Grafton's  chatelaine  struck 
discordantly  upon  their  ears.  They  did  not  at  once 
rise,  but  remained  with  their  heads  bowed,  their  backs 
to  the  door. 

In  a  moment  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Miss 
Grafton  entered  the  chapel,  speaking,  in  her  usual  tone 
of  voice,  to  Mrs.  Ryder  who  followed  close  behind  her. 
As  she  advanced,  Mary  and  Christopher  rose  from 
their  knees. 

Miss  Grafton  was  surprised  and  somewhat  annoyed. 
87 


The  Shadow 

"  Oh,  you  are  in  here,"  she  said,  with  her  penetrating 
voice,  and  looked  at  them.  "  Not  a  very  healthy 
place  for  you,  is  it  ?  No  air  at  all.  Christopher 
would  certainly  be  better  in  the  garden." 

She  went  forward  without  the  smallest  trace  of  rever- 
ence to  the  sanctuary,  the  housekeeper  creeping  like  a 
swift  shadow  behind  her.  There  was  as  little  rever- 
ence in  the  silent  and  quite  soundless  movements  ol 
the  housekeeper  as  in  the  noisy  and  practical  advance 
of  the  mistress.  Miss  Grafton  thought  that  to  lower 
the  voice  in  an  empty  church  or  to  walk  about  in  it 
with  a  step  different  from  one's  ordinary  gait  was  a 
form  of  hypocrisy.  A  church  was  built  of  wood  and 
stone  like  any  other  building ;  how  one  walked  or 
talked  did  not  affect  it ;  one  could  be  reverent  in  the 
heart  without  cringing  the  knee,  muffling  the  voice, 
and  creeping  about  like  a  ghost.  There  was  no  non- 
sense in  her  religion,  she  said.  She  did  not  know 
that  in  the  Graftonian  religion  there  was  also  no  God. 

Mary  and  Christopher  were  walking  in  the  garden 
when  Miss  Grafton  came  out  to  them.  The  child 
had  asked  his  mother  whether  anything  had  happened 
to  make  her  sad,  and  she  had  answered,  "  No,  some- 
thing has  happened  to  make  me  glad"  Her  voice 
was  so  happy  that  he  had  looked  up  quickly  ;  and  to 
his  dying  day  he  never  forgot  the  infinite  look  of  peace 
in  his  mother's  eyes.  That  profound  and  wonderful 
expression  dispelled  his  perplexed  anxiety,  but  awed 
him  so  that  he  could  not  speak.  "  Nothing  can  hurt 
us,  Christopher,"  she  had  said  presently.  "  If  you 
always  think  that  God  loves  us,  you  will  feel  safe.  We 
are  safe.  I  know  that  He  cares  for  us." 

88 


We  Must  Suffer 

She  had  just  spoken  these  words,  which  deepened 
Christopher's  awe,  when  Miss  Grafton  approached 
them. 

Christopher  was  sent  indoors  to  prepare  a  lesson, 
and  Miss  Grafton,  turning  away  from  the  house,  said 
to  Mary,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

An  hour  ago  these  ominous  words  would  have 
produced  a  kind  of  terror  in  the  mother's  heart,  but 
now  they  made  no  impression. 

What  was  it  that  she  had  learned  in  the  chapel  ? 

On  her  knees  she  had  received  the  assurance  that 
there  is  no  pain  or  suffering,  no  grief  or  sorrow,  no 
wound  or  humiliation,  however  bitter,  which  cannot  be 
endured  by  a  soul  resting  in  God.  To  rest  in  God  is 
to  be  invulnerable  in  the  midst  of  battle,  sheltered  in 
the  midst  of  tempest,  patient  in  the  midst  of  pain, 
quiet  in  the  face  of  death.  Submission  to  that  divine 
and  infinite  Will,  resignation  to  that  loving  and 
righteous  Providence,  accomplish  more  than  the  pacifi- 
cation of  a  frightened  soul ;  they  disarm  the  multi- 
tudinous hosts  of  the  world's  antagonism.  And  for 
the  sensitive  mind,  the  disquieted  heart,  the  shrinking 
soul,  only  in  this  utter  and  grateful  submission  of  the 
will  can  there  be  lasting  calm  and  inviolate  tran- 
quillity. 

She  was  willing  to  endure  tribulations ;  she  was 
content  to  suffer.  By  God's  mercy  she  promised  to 
be  patient  under  provocation,  to  be  meek  and  lowly, 
to  accept  all  trials  and  all  humiliations,  to  transform 
everything  that  hurt  and  assaulted  her  soul  into  the 
discipline  of  God's  providence. 

She  felt  that  she  would  now  be  able  to  teach 
89 


The  Shadow 

Christopher  the  secret  of  life.  Her  own  sense  of  rest 
was  so  deep  and  pervasive  that  she  yearned  to  share 
it  with  her  son. 

She  saw  that  life  at  Glevering,  with  all  its  humilia- 
tions and  subtle  affronts,  could  be  perfectly  supported 
by  this  divine  faith.  She  would  sit  a  beggar  at  their 
table,  and  not  be  ashamed  ;  she  would  bear  their 
glances  and  their  neglect  without  anger  or  resentment. 
How  could  they  hurt  her  if  she  did  not  feel  their 
chastisement  ?  What  could  the  world  do  to  shatter 
her  peace  if  she  had  renounced  the  world  ?  How  safe, 
how  secure,  how  happy  she  was !  Christopher,  she 
told  herself,  should  so  learn  to  comprehend  this  loving 
Fatherhood  of  God  that  he,  too,  would  be  strong  and 
enduring  ;  the  manhood  in  his  soul,  which  they  would 
either  break  or  embitter,  should  become  that  flexible 
and  lasting  thing  which  supported  the  saints  when 
the  wolves  of  the  world  howled  against  them.  He 
should  be  taught  the  true  manliness,  the  true  courage, 
the  true  strength  ;  his  beautiful  and  innocent  young 
soul  should  unfold  its  powers  in  the  cool  and  sacred 
shade  of  her  motherhood,  the  wings  of  Eternal  Love 
encompassing  them  both.  Yes,  this  life  which  but  an 
hour  ago  had  tortured  and  racked  her  finest  sensi- 
bilities was  become  now,  not  an  outrage  threatening 
to  overwhelm  her,  but  a  discipline  for  the  purification 
of  her  soul  and  the  perfection  of  her  virtues,  her  soul 
and  her  son's  soul,  her  virtues  and  his  virtues.  They 
were  safe.  Nothing  could  destroy  them. 

Thus  it  was  that  Mary  heard  without  affright 
the  ominous  intimation  that  Glevering's  mistress  had 
something  to  say  to  her. 

90 


We  Must  Suffer 

Isabel  Grafton  began  at  once  in  her  precise  and 
business-like  manner.  It  was  high  time,  she  said,  that 
Christopher  prepared  for  school ;  her  soundings  of 
him  had  revealed  inconceivable  depths  of  ignorance ; 
he  knew  no  arithmetic  to  speak  of,  no  Latin  whatever, 
his  spelling  was  disreputable,  his  writing  perfectly 
infantile,  and  as  for  his  geography,  he  did  not  even 
know  the  names  of  the  oceans. 

As  it  happened,  Sir  Matthew  had  been  thinking 
for  some  months  of  opening  the  chapel  for  those 
people  in  the  village  who,  like  themselves,  could  not 
endure  the  odious  man  in  the  Rectory.  A  chaplain 
would  be  engaged,  and  this  person,  who  would  have 
nothing  to  do  but  conduct  the  services  on  Sundays, 
might  very  well  employ  his  week-days  by  coaching 
Christopher  for  school. 

This  announcement  was  a  most  terrible  trial  to 
Mary's  faith.  The  thought  of  separation  from  her  son 
was  unendurable.  His  soul  belonged  to  her.  She 
and  she  alone,  had  the  right  to  train  it  for  God. 

"  I  am  a  Catholic,"  she  said  gently,  "  and  Chris- 
topher  " 

Miss  Grafton  stopped  dead.  "You  must  never 
mention — never,  in  the  presence  of  my  brother,  that 
you  are  a  Roman.  There  are  reasons."  She  began 
to  walk  again.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings," 
she  said,  "  but  I  must  tell  you  that  if  you  knew  the 
history  of  your  church,  and  if  you  really  understood 
what  it  teaches,  you  would  immediately  disown  it 
with  feelings  of  shame  and  detestation.  But  that  does 
not  concern  me.  There  is  no  Roman  church  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  unless  you  attend  the  services  in 

91 


The  Shadow 

the  chapel  you  will  be  obliged  to  practise  your 
religion  in  secret.  However,  that  is  for  yourself  to 
decide.  You  need  not  anticipate  any  interference  in 
the  matter  of  your  religious  convictions  either  from 
Sir  Matthew  or  myself.  So  long  as  you  are  careful 
never  to  mention  the  word  Catholic  in  his  presence 
— pray  be  most  careful  of  that — no  harm  will  be  done. 
But  Christopher  is  quite  another  question." 

The  idea  of  physical  separation  from  Christopher 
suggested  by  the  word  school  was  a  poignant  anguish 
to  the  mother ;  but  the  suggestion  of  a  spiritual 
separation,  a  separation  of  her  son's  soul  from  hers, 
was  intolerable. 

She  knew  nothing  of  the  Church  of  England,  except 
the  vague  and  contemptuous  ideas  which  float  in  the 
atmosphere  of  Roman  seminaries.  Loyalty  to  the 
Roman  Church  did  not  really  move  her;  it  was 
loyalty  to  her  own  soul,  loyalty  to  the  illumination 
which  had  just  come  to  her,  which  now  operated 
with  resistless  force  in  her  mind.  Christopher,  at  all 
costs,  must  know  the  blessing  and  the  strength  of 
her  religion. 

Mary  said  quietly :  "  He  is  my  son.  No  one  must 
teach  him  religion  but  myself." 

Miss  Grafton  laughed  good-naturedly.  "You  do 
not,  my  dear  child,  appreciate  the  situation." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  dependent  on  you  ? " 

"  Apparently  you  have  no  other  support" 

"  Yes,  there  is  God." 

Isabel  glanced  for  a  moment  at  her  sister-in-law  with 
a  quick  reprehension  of  her  eyes.  "  You  have  been 
praying  in  the  chapel,"  she  said,  with  a  sting  of  censure 

02 


We  Must  Suffer 

and  a  full  acidity  of  contempt ;  "  your  senses  are  not 
yet  adjusted  to  the  material  world.  Faith  is  a 
perfectly  proper  condition  for  a  soul  with  a  well- 
balanced  brain  and  a  practical  knowledge  of  life,  but 
it  is  extremely  dangerous  in  any  other  case.  Until 
you  are  better  acquainted  with  the  world  you  would 
do  well  to  restrict  faith  to  your  prayers." 

"  I  am  ignorant  of  the  world,  but  my  conscience 
will  light  my  way." 

"  Conscience  without  intelligence,"  said  Miss  Grafton 
impatiently,  "  is  a  compass  without  a  navigator.  But 
this  is  all  beside  the  point.  Let  us,  please,  avoid  con- 
troversy. I  myself  dwell  very  much  outside  the  region 
of  opinion.  In  my  world,  which  is  the  world  of 
practical  daily  life,  there  are  certain  perfectly  well- 
ascertained  causes  and  effects,  and  nothing  in  that 
world  is  a  matter  of  opinion  ;  when  we  use  words  in 
that  world  we  know  what  we  mean.  Now,  to  resume, 
Christopher  is  your  son,  it  is  true,  but  he  is  something 
more  ;  he  is  a  Grafton.  Sir  Matthew,  with  very  good 
reason,  has  such  an  antagonism  for  Roman  Catholics 
that  it  is  a  boundless  folly  for  you  to  suppose  that 
he  can  possibly  entertain  for  a  single  moment  the  idea 
of  educating  the  boy  he  is  supporting  for  his  brother's 
sake  in  the  principles  of  that  discredited  church.  That, 
my  dear  Mary,  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  There 
are  other  reasons  which  I  need  not  go  into.  Enough 
of  this  side  of  the  question.  Let  me  now  tell  you 
that  my  brother  intends  to  deal  handsomely  by  your 
son.  If  he  conducts  himself  well,  and  shows  a  proper 
sense  of  his  condition,  Sir  Matthew  will  send  him  to 
Eton.  It  will  depend  only  on  his  own  efforts  whether 

93 


The  Shadow 

he  goes  to  Oxford  afterwards.  I  want  you  to  know 
these  intentions  of  my  brother  so  that  you  may  realise 
the  obligations  which  Christopher  is  under  to  Sir 
Matthew  and  the  opportunities  which  are  presented  to 
him." 

To  Mary  the  name  of  Eton  had  no  meaning  what- 
ever, and  even  if  she  had  possessed  the  world's  respect 
for  all  that  Eton  stands  for  in  English  social  life,  she 
would  have  felt  no  difficulty  in  withstanding  the 
temptation  to  surrender  her  motherhood.  Very  strong 
in  that  motherhood,  now  doubly  sacred  in  her  eyes, 
she  replied  quietly  but  with  an  unshakable  decisive- 
ness that  Christopher  was  her  son  and  that  his  religion 
must  be  his  mother's. 

To  this  Miss  Grafton  coolly  and  off-handedly 
answered  that  Christopher  had  possessed  a  father, 
and  that  Mary  must  put  out  of  her  head  the  supposi- 
tion that  the  son  was  to  be  deprived  of  his  father's 
religion.  "  Evidently,"  she  said,  with  a  fine  asump- 
tion  of  knowledge,  "  you  are  quite  ignorant  of  the  law 
on  this  subject.  Let  me  assure  you  that  you  have 
no  power  in  the  world  to  alter  the  religion  of  the 
boy's  family.  He  will  be  brought  up  in  the  faith  of 
his  fathers,  and  in  no  other." 

"  But  he  is  my  son,"  said  Mary,  beginning  to  fear. 
"  It  you  refuse  to  keep  us  here,  unless  I  give  up  his 
soul,  we  will  go  away." 

"You  can  go  away,  my  dear  child,"  answered 
Miss  Grafton,  "  although  it  will  be  very  unwise  of  you 
to  do  any  such  thing.  But  Christopher  will  stay." 

In  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  Mary  was  visited 
with  a  desperate  terror.  "  Oh  no,"  she  said,  struggling 

94 


We  Must  Suffer 

for  clarity  of  thought ;  "  no  one  can  take  him  from 
me." 

"  I  must  tell  you  something  that  you  do  not  know." 

"  He  is  my  son.     He  belongs  to  me." 

"  Will  you  listen  ?  " 

"  I  will  work  for  him.  I  cannot  let  any  one  take 
him  from  me." 

"  I  will  wait  till  you  are  quiet." 

"  How  can  you  take  him  away  from  me  ? " 

"  That  is  what  I  wish  to  tell  you.  If  you  will 
compose  yourself,  you  will  understand  what  I  have 
to  say.  I  do  beg  you  to  study  command  of  your 
feelings.  It  is  quite  impossible  for  you  to  act  as 
a  rational  being  and  to  think  as  a  rational  being  if 
you  let  your  emotions  get  the  upper  hand  of  your 
reason." 

For  a  few  moments  they  walked  in  silence. 

"  What  I  have  to  tell  you,  Mary,"  said  Miss  Graf- 
ton,  "  need  not  be  told  to  Christopher.  Sir  Matthew 
does  not  wish  him  to  know.  You  will  therefore  keep 
it  for  the  present  entirely  to  yourself.  It  is  a  matter  of 
the  greatest  importance."  She  paused,  then,  turning 
to  mark  the  effect  of  her  words,  she  said,  "  Christopher 
at  present  is  Sir  Matthew's  heir." 

Mary  made  no  answer. 

"  The  only  son  of  my  second  brother,"  continued 
Miss  Grafton,  glancing  away  again,  "  was  killed  in 
Zululand,  the  rest  of  the  children  are  girls.  My  third 
brother,  who  married  Lady  Emily  Jervis,  has  no 
children  at  present.  In  these  circumstances,  Chris- 
topher is  the  heir  to  the  title  next  after  the  present 
generation.  So  far  as  we  can  see,  he  will  some  day 

95 


The  Shadow 

be  the  head  of  the  family.  It  is,  therefore,  his  due 
that  he  should  be  educated  for  his  position ;  it  is 
therefore  inevitable  that  he  should  grow  up  in  the 
traditions  of  his  family.  You  are  his  mother,  and 
unless  you  marry  again  you  will  always  live  here, 
and  you  will  see  as  much  of  him  as  anybody  else. 
But  there  must  be  no  interference  in  Sir  Matthew's 
plans  for  his  education.  None  whatever.  You  will 
not  see  anything  unreasonable  in  this  essential  con- 
dition if  you  realise,  as  I  think  you  will  on  reflection, 
what  it  means  to  be  the  head  of  the  Graftons." 
"  That  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  the  mother. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
AN    INVASION    OF    GLEVERING 


contrast  between  the  natures  of  Isabel  and 
1  Mary  Grafton  was  complete.  No  subtle  and 
painful  analysis  was  necessary  to  reveal  this 
difference  ;  it  was  drawn  by  the  pencil  of  Nature. 

Nothing  could  be  more  antipathetic  than  the  vivid, 
masterful,  capable,  hectoring,  straw-coloured  eyes  of 
Miss  Grafton,  and  the  large,  luminous,  dark  eyes  of 
the  young  widow.  In  the  presence  of  Isabel  one  was 
careful  ;  in  the  presence  of  Mary  one  was  reverent. 
Isabel's  eyes  pierced  with  the  sharpness  of  steel  and 
saw  an  infinite  detail  ;  the  eyes  of  Mary  received 
vision  and  seemed  to  reflect  in  their  profound  depths 
the  soul  of  things. 

In  the  affairs  of  life  Isabel  was  as  vastly  superior  to 
Mary  as  Mary  was  superior  to  Isabel  in  the  things  of 
God.  Their  natures,  indeed,  represented  the  eternal 
conflict  between  spirit  and  matter,  phenomena  and 
reality,  society  and  life,  time  and  eternity,  God  and 
Mammon. 

The  duel  between  these  two  so  sharply  contrasted 
antagonists  ended  in  a  manner  which  each  regarded 
as  a  victory.  Isabel  got  her  own  way  and  congratu- 
lated herself  on  a  personal  triumph.  Mary  resigned 
herself  to  the  Divine  Will  and  blessed  God  for  the 

97  H 


The  Shadow 

ability  with  which  His  love  had  provided  her  to  practise 
renunciation. 

We  must  explain  how  it  was  that  the  controversy 
concerning  Christopher  ended  in  this  way.  At  first 
Mary  was  resolute  in  her  determination.  Nothing 
that  Isabel  said  or  threatened  had  power  to  turn  the 
current  of  her  purpose.  In  one  scale  of  the  balance 
might  be  all  the  proudest  titles  and  all  the  greatest 
wealth  in  the  world,  but  in  the  other  was  the  soul  ol 
her  son.  It  seemed  to  her  an  inconceivable  thing 
that  Isabel  should  imagine  it  possible  for  a  mother  to 
sell  the  heart  of  her  maternity  and  the  soul  of  her 
child  for  a  price. 

On  the  morning  which  followed  the  first  day  of  this 
duel  she  received  a  letter  from  Annabel  which  gave 
strength  to  her  resolution.  Kind  little  Annabel  had 
written  out  of  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  and  the  whole 
letter  glowed  with  hope  and  palpitated  with  courage. 
She  told  Mary  not  to  worry,  assured  her  that  a  happy 
end  would  soon  be  found  for  her  troubles,  declared 
that  no  woman  need  nowadays  be  dependent  on 
others,  and  concluded  by  a  thrice-underlined  intima- 
tion that  she  and  the  Collector  were  preparing  a 
surprise  for  their  dear  and  beautiful  friend. 

With  what  joy  did  Mary  read  and  re-read  this 
effusive  and  affectionate  letter !  It  promised  her 
deliverance  from  humiliation  ;  it  opened  a  door  from 
her  present  helplessness ;  it  struck  at  the  chains  of 
her  ignominious  dependence.  The  idea  that  she  could 
be  set  free  was  a  joy  unspeakable,  but  her  soul  was 
ravished  by  the  greater  and  more  glorious  thought 
that  she  would  work  for  Christopher,  and  earn  his 

98 


An   Invasion  of  Glevering 

bread,  and  provide  for  him  body  and  soul.  This  was 
a  thought  most  precious  to  her.  No  labour  could  be 
too  severe,  no  garret  too  mean,  no  circumstances  too 
hard  and  oppressive  for  the  sacrament  of  her  mother- 
hood. She  began  to  visualise  the  delightful  life  ahead 
of  her,  the  life  in  which  she  worked  for  Christopher, 
and  they  lived  together  in  love,  simplicity,  and  in- 
dependence. 

On  that  day,  therefore,  Mary  still  resisted  the 
assaults  of  Miss  Grafton. 

It  must  be  told  that  neither  Mary  nor  Christopher 
ever  saw  the  baronet  alone.  They  met  him  at  meals, 
he  sat  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  for  an  hour, 
and  that  was  all.  On  these  occasions  he  never  spoke 
to  them  intimately,  and  hardly  ever  addressed  them 
personally.  He  seemed  to  have  no  other  channel 
for  his  remarks  either  about  them  or  the  servants 
except  his  practical,  sharp-eyed  sister  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table. 

"  Mrs.  Richard,  I  hope,  has  spent  a  pleasant  after- 
noon," he  would  say  to  Isabel,  with  his  eyebrows 
twitching  and  his  eyes  grinding  out  their  flint-like 
smile ;  or,  "  Has  Christopher  manifested  a  ray  of  in- 
telligence in  his  lessons  this  morning  ? "  or,  speaking 
of  the  footman  still  in  the  room,  "  Why  does  he  hold 
a  dish  a  mile  away  from  one,  or  else  push  it  into  one's 
chest?" 

In  the  drawing-room,  having  read  The  Times  in 
his  library,  he  glanced  through  Miss  Grafton's  Morning 
Post  and  read  aloud  paragraphs  which  amused  him 
and  which  had  a  certain  interest  for  his  sister,  but 
possessed  no  meaning  for  his  sister-in-law. 

99  II  2 


The  Shadow 

Everything  concerning  his  intentions  or  his  wishes 
as  regarded  Mary  and  Christopher  came  through 
Miss  Grafton. 

But  when  Mary  had  retired  for  the  night,  Miss 
Grafton  always  paid  a  visit  to  the  library,  and  from 
these  audiences  she  came  away  with  clear  and  minute 
instructions  from  the  baronet. 

Sir  Matthew  had  married  in  his  twenty-fifth  year 
a  lady  with  a  great  fortune.  The  Rector  of  Glevering, 
presented  to  the  living  by  Sir  Matthew's  father,  was 
extreme  in  his  views,  which  were  of  the  order  known 
as  Tractarian.  He  was  an  able  man,  and  persuasive 
with  that  Gladstonian  persuasiveness  which  is  even 
more  powerful  in  its  operations  on  the  possessor  than 
on  other  people.  He  made  an  impression  on  Lady 
Grafton  when  that  poor  lady  was  bowed  to  the  'earth 
by  the  death  of  her  first  child.  This  impression 
deepened.  The  lady's  susceptibilities  were  like  a 
mirror,  her  will — stubborn  enough  in  its  antipathies 
— was  like  wax  where  its  sympathies  were  deeply 
engaged.  As  the  Rector  advanced  in  his  ideas,  so, 
too,  did  Lady  Grafton.  Increasing  illness  rendered 
her  a  little  hysterical,  and  she  began  to  pass  the 
Rector  in  the  race  of  ideas.  He  came  to  the  point 
where  the  Church  of  England  seemed  to  have  no 
other  mission  in  the  world  than  corporate  reunion 
with  the  Latin  Obedience  ;  Lady  Grafton  rushed  on 
to  the  point  where  surrender  to  Rome  appeared  to  be 
surrender  to  God. 

Sir  Matthew  awoke  too  late  to  the  situation.  His 
irreligiousness  had  made  him  avoid  the  Rector,  and 
he  never  went  to  church.  It  was  from  Isabel,  who 

100 


An   Invasion  of  Glevering 

came  on  a  visit  to  Glevering,  that  he  first  learned  the 
danger.  Instantly  he  practised  the  greatest  severity 
towards  his  wife  and  set  himself  to  drive  the 
clergyman  out  of  Glevering.  In  both  these  efforts 
he  met  with  defeat.  The  Bishop  refused  to  act,  the 
Rector  refused  to  resign  ;  every  effort  of  the  squire 
to  humiliate  the  clergyman  and  impoverish  the  parish 
only  revealed  the  complete  independence  of  the  in- 
cumbent and  the  impotence  of  the  patron.  But  far 
worse  than  this  failure  with  the  clergyman  was  his 
defeat  at  the  hands  of  his  wife.  Lady  Grafton  went 
to  London,  was  received  into  the  church  of  Rome, 
and  dying  some  five  years  afterwards,  bequeathed  the 
whole  of  her  fortune  to  that  communion. 

Miss  Grafton  had  good  reasons  when  she  warned 
her  sister-in-law  against  any  reference  to  the  Roman 
Church. 

The  thought  that  his  heir  should  be  a  member  of 
the  hated  church  was  insufferable  to  the  baronet.  He 
gave  the  matter  a  night's  consideration  and  arrived 
at  a  conclusion  which  he  communicated  to  Miss 
Grafton  on  the  following  day. 

Mary  was  to  be  wooed  into  the  Church  of 
England. 

In  this  way  it  came  about  that  Christopher  found 
himself  more  kindly  treated  and  began  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  life  in  scenes  which  were  delightful  to  his 
boyish  senses,  while  in  place  of  domineering  and 
brow-beating  patronage,  Mary  found  herself  the  object 
of  an  almost  affectionate  solicitude. 

Isabel  made  Christopher  her  first  present.  It  was 
Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs.  On  the  same  day  she  told 

101 


The  Shadow 

the  wondering  boy  that  Sir  Matthew  intended  to  give 
him  a  pony  on  his  next  birthday.  To  Mary,  Isabel 
talked  in  as  gentle  and  persuasive  a  manner  as  she 
could  command  of  the  Church  of  England.  She 
sought  to  enlighten  the  ignorance  of  her  sister-in- 
law,  and  to  remove  the  unintelligible  prejudices  which 
that  innocent  child  had  unconsciously  imbibed  in  her 
convent.  She  was  not  altogether  unsuccessful.  Mary 
learned  from  this  proselytising  sister-in-law  that  the 
Church  of  England  taught  the  same  religious  prin- 
ciples as  the  Church  of  Rome ;  that  separation  was 
merely  a  form  due  to  the  difference  of  nationality 
and  the  necessities  of  government ;  and  that  a  Christian 
could  find  everything  in  the  Church  of  England  which 
the  most  scrupulous  devotee  could  discover  in  the 
Church  of  Rome. 

Immediately  the  great  barrier  in  Mary's  heart  gave 
way. 

It  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  choice  at  first  pre- 
sented was  between  God  and  godlessness.  If  Chris- 
topher could  learn  to  love  God  in  the  beautiful  little 
chapel  of  Glevering,  why  should  she  risk  his  peace  and 
safety  in  the  perils  and  affrights  of  a  great  city  like 
London  ? 

But  to  give  up  her  ambition  of  working  for  him ! 
It  was  like  tearing  up  the  gifts  of  Hope. 

She  found  a  passage  in  Fenelon  which  seemed  to 
guide  her  decision :  "  We  must  renounce  those  who 
are  most  dear  to  us,  and  whom  we  are  in  duty  bound 
to  love ;  this  renunciation  consists  in  loving  them  only 
for  God ;  enjoying  the  consolation  of  their  friendship 
occasionally,  and  with  moderation,  being  ready  to 

102 


An   Invasion  of  Glevering 

part  with  them  when  it  is  the  will  of  God,  and  never 
seeking  in  them  the  true  repose  of  the  heart." 

She  began  to  doubt  the  reality  of  her  faith,  even 
to  suspect  her  own  motherhood.  Did  she  love  Chris- 
topher with  a  selfish  and  an  animal  love  ? — was  she 
ready  to  efface  herself  for  his  happiness  ? — was  it  of 
him  she  thought  and  him  alone,  or  of  her  feelings 
towards  him  ?  And  did  she  love  God  more  than  her 
child  ?  Terrible  question  !  Could  she  say,  with  God 
listening  to  her,  that  she  did  not  seek  repose  of  the 
heart  in  her  mother's  love,  that  she  sought  it  only  in 
His  will  and  purpose  ? 
She  was  sorely  tortured. 

If  they  taught  Christopher  the  consolations  of  faith, 
if  she  was  permitted  to  see  him  sometimes,  why  should 
she  seek  to  dispute  God's  will  ?  Was  it  not  the  will 
of  Heaven  that  her  child  should  be  the  heir  to  this 
place  in  the  English  world  ?  Could  she  alter  pre- 
destination ? 

She  must  bow,  she  must  submit.  It  was  God's  will 
with  her  that  she  should  renounce  all  selfishness  in 
her  mother's  love.  This  decision  to  which  she  was 
called  was  but  another  loving  providence  for  the 
purification  of  her  soul  and  the  perfection  of  her 
virtues. 

She  was  accustoming  herself  to  this  idea,  when  one 
day,  a  week  after  the  controversy  had  opened,  an 
unexpected  incident  provided  her  with  fresh  strength 
for  her  purpose. 

The  family  was  in  the  midst  of  luncheon  when  the 
butler  entered  the  dining-room  and  announced  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  had  called  to  see 

103 


The  Shadow 

Mrs.  Richard.  The  effect  of  this  announcement  was 
multiform. 

To  begin  with,  Christopher  started  from  his  chair, 
saying,  "  May  I  go  to  them,  Aunt  Isabel  ? "  while 
Aunt  Isabel  commanded  with  a  sharp  asperity,  "  Sit 
down  immediately."  Mary's  face,  full  of  light  and 
gladness,  turned  from  mistress  to  servant,  anxiously 
waiting  for  the  admission  of  her  friends.  As  for  the 
baronet,  he  glanced  up  the  table,  waited  to  catch  his 
sister's  eye,  and  then,  giving  her  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible nod,  began  to  eat  with  extraordinary  quick- 
ness. 

"  Did  you  tell  them,"  asked  Miss  Grafton,  "  that  we 
were  at  luncheon  ?  " 

The  butler  replied  with  a  bowing  affirmative. 

"  And  they  said  they  would  wait  ? " 

The  butler  was  silent,  with  that  provoking  awkward- 
ness which  servants  adopt  when  they  have  something 
to  say  which  is  out  of  the  routine  of  their  office.  He 
first  regarded  Miss  Grafton  with  a  deferential  expres- 
sion which  seemed  to  say,  "  Pray  do  not  harrow  my 
feelings  by  commanding  me  to  say  another  word," 
and  then  lowered  his  gaze  and  seemed  to  suppress 
a  pale  smile  of  which  he  was  heartily  ashamed. 

"  Come,"  said  Miss  Grafton,  "  you've  got  a  tongue 
in  your  head.  What  did  they  say  ? " 

Lifting  up  his  eyes,  and  glancing  at  the  baronet 
for  a  moment,  the  troubled  butler  made  answer  in  a 
low  voice :  "  Well,  miss,  when  I  said  that  you  were  at 
luncheon,  the  gentleman  answered  me  that  luncheon 
was  one  of  the  noblest  words  in  the  dictionary ;  and 
he  added,  miss,  that  he  would  be  much  obliged  to  me 

104 


An  Invasion  of  Glevering 

if  I  would  introduce  him  to  our  cook's  definition  of 
that  word  as  quickly  as  possible,  seeing  that  he  had 
eaten  nothing  since  7 . 30  this  morning." 

"  Isabel,"  said  the  baronet,  with  a  most  agreeable 
laugh,  "  that  is  just  the  very  thing  Mr.  Mauritius 
Smith  would  say.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  gentle- 
man's cheerful  and  liberty-loving  nature.  Pray  let 
them  come  in."  He  rose  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke, 
and  turning  to  the  footman,  said,  "  Bring  me  cheese 
in  the  library."  At  the  door  he  said,  "  Do  let  them 
enjoy  themselves ;  let  them  have  all  to  eat  they 
ask  for." 

Mary  inquired  in  a  gentle  voice  if  she  should  go 
to  her  friends. 

"  We  will  all  go,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Grafton, 
with  a  little  amused  and  quite  cheerful  bow.  "  Lay 
places,"  she  said  to  the  butler,  and  rose  from  her 
chair. 

When  they  entered  the  room  into  which  the  visitors 
had  been  shown,  the  collector  of  jungle  produce,  with 
his  blazing  face  and  his  trumpet  of  a  nose,  came 
forward  with  the  greatest  affability  and  assurance, 
exclaiming,  "  Hillo,  Christopher  Columbus  !  "  while  his 
little,  weather-beaten,  brown-faced  wife  rushed  at  Mary 
and  embraced  her  with  kisses  which  seemed  as  though 
they  would  never  come  to  an  end,  with  such  cooings 
and  inquirings  and  tenderness  as  even  Laertes'  son, 
we  are  bold  to  conjecture,  never  received  from  Pene- 
lope. 

Miss  Grafton  stood  in  the  background  of  these 
greetings,  like  a  goddess  surveying  the  antics  of  a 
small  mortality. 

105 


The  Shadow 

Mauritius  froze  a  little  at  sight  of  her  ;  he  bowed 
with  a  court-like  exaggeration,  mumbled  a  few  words 
of  address,  and  then  relieved  his  feelings  and  recovered 
his  composure  by  digging  Christopher  in  the  ribs, 
punching  that  delighted  young  gentleman  in  what  he 
called  his  "  bread  basket,"  and  rallying  him  in  the 
most  frank  and  candid  manner  imaginable  on  the 
change  in  his  fortunes  from  steerage  to  Glevering. 

"  Won't  you  come  and  take  some  luncheon  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Grafton,  with  indulgent  kindness. 

Annabel,  with  her  kind  face  wreathed  in  smiles 
and  her  little  dark  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure, 
explained  that  Miss  Grafton  must  really  excuse  her 
for  showing  such  uncontrollable  delight  at  sight  of 
her  dear  friend,  of  whom  she  had  never  ceased  to 
think  for  a  single  moment  since  she  parted  from  her 
at  Liverpool. 

Mary,  a  little  bewildered  by  this  overwhelming 
greeting,  took  Mrs.  Smith's  arm  and  followed  Miss 
Grafton  to  the  dining-room. 

No  sooner  had  they  seated  themselves  at  the  freshly 
arranged  table  than  poor  Mauritius,  overcome  by  one 
of  his  paroxysms,  went  off  like  a  Catherine- wheel. 
Both  the  servants  jumped  at  the  first  sound  of  the 
sawing-wood-noises  and  the  tearing-linen-noises  which 
succeeded  each  other  with  a  rapidity  truly  alarming, 
while  Christopher  turned  quickly  to  Miss  Grafton, 
who  was  staring  open-eyed  at  the  frightful  grimaces 
which  the  Collector  was  apparently  aiming  at  her, 
saying  eagerly,  "  It's  all  right,  Aunt  Isabel  ;  it's  only 
the  clockwork  ! " 

Mauritius,  emerging  from  this  spasm,  laughed 
106 


MAURITIUS,    OVERCOME    BY    ONE    OF    HIS    PAROXYSMS,   WENT 
OFF    LIKE    A    CATHERINE-WHEEL. 


An   Invasion  of  Glevering 

heartily,  and  said,  "  Christopher  Columbus  remembers 
everything.  No  occasion  for  panic  or  alarm,  ma'am. 
Irregular  explosions  of  nervous  energy,  nothing  more. 
Not  catching  in  the  least.  They  only  serve  to  give 
me  an  appetite  for  my  meals.  Christopher,  you 
ruffian,  we'll  see  who  can  eat  the  most." 

After  this  inauspicious  beginning,  the  meal  pro- 
ceeded a  little  frigidly. 

Mrs.  Mauritius,  with  sweetness  jn  .her  eyes  :and 
ingratiating  admiration  in  her  voice,  began  presently 
to  speak  to  Miss  Grafton  about  her  beautiful  home. 
"  How  proud  you  must  be  of  it !  What  a  superb  edifice 
— so  stately,  so  ancient,  so  magnificent ! "  exclaimed 
the  kind  little  woman.  "When  it  burst  upon  our 
view  in  the  fly,  I  gripped  my  dear  husband's  hand 
and  exclaimed — I  couldn't  help  myself — 

'  The  stately  homes  of  England, 
How  beautiful  they  stand ! ' 

It  seemed  such  a  natural  quotation.  And  then  I  said 
to  him,  '  But  it  is  not  only  grandeur  we  are  looking 
at,  Mauritius  ;  we  are  looking  at  family  love,  the 
home-life  of  England,  and  all  the  dear,  dear  beauties 
of  domestic  affection.'  You  don't  know  how  we 
appreciate  those  things  in  exile." 

Miss  Grafton  bowed  her  acknowledgment  of  this 
compliment. 

"  My  wife,  ma'am,"  said  the  Collector,  munching 
heartily,  "  paid  the  same  compliments  to  the  exterior 
of  your  mansion  as  I  wish  to  pay  to  your  table. 
This  cold  beef,  these  delicately  bronzed  potato  balls, 
and  these  pickles — I  venture  to  particularise  the 
gherkins — are  worthy  of  the  mansion.  They  are 

107 


The  Shadow 

the  genuine  article.  If  the  right  honourable  baronet 
were  present  I  would  venture  to  congratulate  him  on 
his  cellar  ;  I  pronounce  this  hock  to  be  tip-top,  Ai, 
incomparable.  Christopher,  you  roystering  ruffian, 
if  you  fare  like  this  every  day  you'll  equal  the  fat 
boy  in  Pickwick,  the  Lord  Mayor's  coachman,  and 
the  Tichborne  claimant." 

"  I  feel  so  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  directly  her 
husband  had  finished,  "  to  think  that  our  friend  is 
living  in  such  a  paradise  of  a  place  ;  and  now  that 
I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  Miss  Grafton, 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  to  know  that 
she  is  provided  with 'what  is  far  more  than  a  grand 
house  and  a  proud  position — a  true  and  noble  friend." 

"  You  are  really  too  kind,"  said  Miss  Grafton. 

"Ah,  ma'am,"  said  the  Collector,  with  his  mouth 
full  of  beef  and  potatoes  and  with  a  long  gherkin 
dripping  vinegar  from  the  end  of  his  lifted  fork,  "  my 
wife,  who  is  also  my  angel,  my  providence,  and 
occasionally  my  stupefaction,  does  in  truth  possess  the 
most  remarkable  kindness  of  which  it  is  possible  to 
conceive.  If  you  knew  her,  ma'am,  you  would  find 
yourself  constantly  exclaiming,  '  What  a  heart ! '  But 
on  this  occasion,  I  am  bound  to  say,  I  whose  feet 
have  been  brought  a  thousand  times  to  the  edge  of 
bankruptcy  by  the  abnormal  benevolence  of  my  wife's 
heart,  that  she  does  not  exaggerate.  You  have  re- 
ceived us  with  cordiality.  You  are  feeding  us  with 
a  royal  munificence.  And,  if  I  am  anything  of  a  judge 
of  character,  I  read  in  your  countenance,  rna'am — and 
I  am  bold  to  confess  it  to  the  said  countenance — 
qualities  of  generosity,  kindness,  and  humanity  which 

1 08 


An   Invasion  of  Glevering 

would  not  be  out  of  place  in  the  visage  of  a  philan- 
thropist like  Elizabeth  Fry  or  a  saint  like  St.  Monica, 
— er — St. — er — well,  any  in  the  calendar.  Christopher, 
you  villain,  you've  stolen  a  march  upon  me ;  you've 
taken  advantage  of  my  volubility  ;  but,  have  at  it ! — 
I'll  catch  you  up."  And  Mauritius  set  to  work  with 
an  energy  which  amply  justified  this  concluding  boast. 

Directly  he  had  finished  speaking,  Mrs.  Mauritius 
leaned  confidently  towards  her  hostess,  and  said  in  a 
very  ingratiating  and  intimate  way,  "  You  will  under- 
stand, dear  Miss  Grafton,  how  anxious  we  have  been 
about  our  friend.  Relations  can  be  so  disagreeable, 
can  they  not  ?  I  am  sure  I  felt  at  Liverpool,  when 
we  were  saying  good-bye  to  her,  just  as  if  she  were 
going  into  a  hospital  for  some  terrible  life  or  death 
operation.  We  didn't  know,  you  see,  what  she  was 
going  to." 

"  My  wife,  ma'am,"  said  Mauritius,  "  has  an  imagina- 
tion during  one  of  her  heart  attacks  which  the  divine 
William  himself  might  have  envied  for  the  tender 
scenes  in  King  Lear." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Annabel,  "  how  relieved 
I  am." 

Miss  Grafton  smiled.     "  I  am  glad,"  she  said. 

"  I  feel  now,"  continued  Mrs.  Mauritius,  "  that  we 
can  start  for  the  East  without  the  smallest  anxiety." 

"  At  the  same  time,"  said  the  Collector,  venturing 
to  wink  at  Miss  Grafton — an  audacity  which  that  lady, 
strange  to  say,  did  not  resent — "  it  would  probably 
complete  the  relieved  feelings  of  my  pet  if  you  would 
assure  her,  ma'am,  that  you  have  no  dungeons  in  the 
establishment,  that  no  poison  is  admitted  to  the  larder, 

109 


The  Shadow 

and  that  daggers  are  not  encouraged  among  your 
retainers." 

Annabel  shook  a  reproving  finger  at  him,  and  turned 
again  to  her  hostess,  saying,  "  My  husband  always 
laughs  at  my  anxiety,  dear  Miss  Grafton  ;  but  I  am 
sure  you  will  understand  how  I  felt  when  I  parted 
with  our  friend,  knowing  that  she  was  going  to 
relations  who  were  complete  strangers  to  her.  You 
can  imagine  our  dreadful  anxiety." 

"  If,  ma'am,"  said  Mauritius,  "  you  could  produce 
the  right  honourable  baronet,  or  at  any  rate  persuade 
him  to  walk  across  the  lawns  in  view  of  the  windows 
for  one  moment  only,  so  that  my  angel  could  assure 
herself  with  her  own  eyes  (which  heaven  bless)  that 
the  aforesaid  baronet  is  neither  Bluebeard  nor  Daniel 
Quilp,  it  would  go  some  way  to  insure  me  against 
several  years  of  heart-breaking  questions  from  my 
angel  concerning  the  perfect  safety  of  her  dear  friend 
in  Glevering."  Mauritius  burst,  out  laughing,  and 
turning  to  one  of  the  servants,  said,  "A  little  more 
wine,  please." 

"Well,  really,"  said  the  wife,  "you  do  read  such 
dreadful  things  in  the  newspapers  nowadays — don't 
you,  Miss  Grafton — that  a  person  may  be  excused 
for  imagining  anything.  I'm  sure,  even  among  the 
aristocracy " 

"Birdie,  I  forbid  you!"  cried  the  Collector.  He 
laughed  again,  and  shook  a  finger  at  her.  "  From  this 
moment  I  refuse  to  hear  one  word  derogatory  of  our 
ancient  aristocracy.  I  have  been  received  with  honour  ; 
I  have  been  treated  with  munificence.  An  appetite 
extending  from  7.30  a.m.,  and  covering  some  hundreds 

no 


An  Invasion  of  Glevering 

• 

of  miles  of  the  Great  Western  Railway's  permanent 
way,  has  ceased  to  exist.  It  has  been  wiped  out.  I 
am  grateful.  Christopher,  you  breathless  forager,  you 
were  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  your  mouth  !  And 
under  this  roof,  lucky  dog,  it  need  never  be  idle ! " 

When  luncheon  was  finished,  the  party  went  into 
the  garden,  and  Christopher  asked  if  he  might  take 
the  Collector  to  the  stables,  a  request  which  Miss 
Grafton  granted  with  a  singular  sweetness.  Then  the 
three  ladies  walked  about  under  the  trees  and  down 
the  long  borders,  Mrs.  Smith  exclaiming  at  the  beauty 
and  splendour  of  the  place,  and  repeatedly  expressing 
her  happiness  at  the  thought  that  her  dear  friend  now 
possessed  in  Miss  Grafton  a  noble  relation,  a  loving 
companion,  and  an  unfailing  friend. 

Mauritius  and  Christopher  appeared  presently,  the 
Collector  explaining,  watch  in  hand,  that  they  must 
now  depart.  "  My  cabman  tells  me,"  he  said,  with  an 
exaggerated  bow  to  Miss  Grafton,  "  that  your  servants 
have  handsomely  entertained  him  in  the  kitchen. 
Permit  me  in  his  name  and  my  own  to  acknowledge 
the  courtesy  to  the  mistress  of  those  servants  and 
the  ch&telaine  of  this  magnificent  mansion.  Angel, 
your  wraps." 

For  two  minutes  Annabel  was  able  to  speak  in 
private  to  Mary  Grafton.  With  great  rapidity  of 
utterance,  accompanied  by  innumerable  nods  of  the 
head,  the  little  weather-beaten  woman  counselled 
her  friend  to  abandon  all  thought  of  London,  to 
endeavour  to  accommodate  herself  to  Miss  Grafton's 
ways,  and  to  enjoy  the  blessings  and  comforts  of 
life  at  Glevering  with  the  happy  hope  that  the  baronet 

ill 


The  Shadow 

would  leave  Christopher  something  handsome  in  his 
will,  perhaps  make  him  his  heir  1 

"  At  the  same  time,  my  dear,"  she  concluded,  "  if 
you  should  ever  be  in  need  of  a  friend,  and  Mauritius 
and  I  are  out  of  the  country,  you  must  write  to 
Mrs.  Grindley,  my  aunt,  whose  address  you  know, 
and  who  will  gladly,  most  gladly,  do  what  she  can  to 
help  you.  But  remember  what  dear  Shakespeare 
says,  '  It  is  better  to  bear  the  ills  we  have  than  fly  to 
others  that  we  know  not  of.'  London  is  a  horrible 
and  wicked  city ;  a  boy  like  Christopher  might  quite 
easily  be  run  over  in  the  streets  or  ruined  in  his 
soul  by  evil  companions.  Here,  whatever  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  situation,  he  must  grow  up  sweet  and 
pure,  mustn't  he  ? — and  that  is  everything." 

While  his  wife  was  speaking  to  Mary  in  this  manner, 
the  Collector  edged  uncomfortably  close  to  Miss 
Grafton,  and  with  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  whispered 
in  her  ear,  "Assure  me,  I  beg  you,  that  the  right 
honourable  baronet  is  not  offended." 

"  Offended— I  don't  understand  1 " 

"  I  ventured  to  write  to  him." 

"  He  told  me,  I  recollect." 

"  He  was  not  offended,  I  hope.  Out  of  the  fulness 
of  my  wife's  abnormal  heart  I  wrote  that  letter. 
Receiving  no  answer,  I  inferred  offence— affront  to 
the  baronet's  honour ;  not  intended,  on  my  honour." 

"  It  is  thoughtful  of  you  to  be  interested  in  our 
sister-in-law." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am  I  Feelings  relieved  !  Ha,  ha, 
I  am  happy  again." 

At  the  cab  door,  with  his  hat  doffed,  Mauritius 
112 


An   Invasion  of  Glevering 

bowed  low  over  Miss  Grafton's  hand  and  was  about 
to  salute  it  with  his  lips,  when  a  spasm  caused  him 
suddenly  to  fling  it  away  and  make  a  face  at  her 
instead.  However,  when  he  had  recovered  from  this 
interruption  of  his  courtesy,  he  desired  her  in  the 
most  felicitous  language  imaginable  to  accept  his  life's 
homage  and  to  present  his  reverence  to  the  right 
honourable  baronet,  her  brother.  "  I  shall  never 
forget  this  visit,"  he  concluded,  "and  if  ever  you 
should  find  yourself  in  Selangor  or  Perak,  or  any- 
where in  the  Malayan  States,  you  will  find  me,  ma'am, 
your  most  humble  and  obedient  servant." 

As  the  cab  drove  away — Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith 
with  a  fluttering  handkerchief  projecting  from  one 
window  and  the  Collector  with  a  waving  hat  from 
the  other — Miss  Grafton  said  to  Mary,  "What  kind- 
hearted  people  ;  but,  my  dear  girl,  what  specimens  !  " 

Then  she  called  Christopher  and  told  him  not  to 
run  after  the  cab  and  to  cease  waving  his  hand. 

When  the  house  vanished  from  view,  the  Smiths 
drew  themselves  out  of  the  window-frames  and  into 
the  cab,  and  sat  down  side  by  side,  a  little  breathless. 

"  Oh,  Mauritius,"  exclaimed  Annabel,  "  did  you 
ever  see  such  a  face  in  your  life  ? " 

"A  piece  of  masonry,  certainly,"  said  Mauritius, 
producing  his  cigar-case. 

"  And  the  house— more  like  a  prison  than  a  home. 
Oh,  I  do  feel  so  sorry  for  her !  Not  a  chair  out 
of  place,  not  a  pin  on  the  floor — nothing  at  all  to 
suggest  a  home.  If  Christopher  is  ever  allowed  to 
laugh  in  that  house,  or  poor  Mrs.  Grafton  to  put  her 
feet  up  on  a  sofa,  I  shall  be  surprised.  And,  Mauritius, 


The  Shadow 

those  little,  hard,  gimlet-pointed  eyes  !  Oh  ! — ugh  ! 
They  make  me  shudder  to  think  of  them." 

"Our  comfort  is,"  said  the  Collector,  biting  the 
end  from  a  cigar,  "  that  we  have  perhaps  done  some- 
thing to  humanise  the  lady.  You  were  incomparable. 
I  regret,  however,  that  I  did  not  get  a  chance  of 
having  a  go  at  the  baronet.  We  may,  I  think, 
nevertheless,  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have  spilt  a 
few  drops  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  that 
house  which  will  not  easily  be  sponged  out." 

"  Of  course  she  is  far  better  off  there  than  starving 
in  London,"  said  Annabel  thoughtfully. 

"  Carried,  Birdie,"  said  the  Collector,  striking  a 
match,  "  tiemine  contradicente" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
A    SUDDEN    CHANGE 

WEEK  after  the  invasion  of  Glevering  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith,  Sir  Matthew  Grafton, 
glancing  through  his  letters  at  breakfast,  an- 
nounced to  his  sister  with  a  particularly  disdainful 
inflection  of  his  voice  that  "  the  minister "  would 
arrive  by  the  mid-day  train  and  would  stay  the 
night.  Mary  heard  this  announcement  with  quick 
interest.  She  understood  what  it  meant ;  Chris- 
topher's tutor  was  coming  to  Glevering.  She  was. 
now  more  or  less  resigned  to  her  existence.  The 
visit  of  the  Smiths,  and  the  letters  she  had  since 
received  from  Annabel,  filled  her  with  a  dazed  fear 
of  the  world  and  of  London  in  particular.  To  expose 
Christopher  to  the  dangers  and  temptations,  the 
sufferings  and  poverty  of  a  vast  commercial  city, 
appeared  now  in  her  eyes  as  a  risk  not  to  be  con- 
templated. 

The  thought,  too,  that  he  was  heir  to  Glevering 
acted  powerfully  in  her  mind,  making  her  feel  that 
it  was  the  manifest  will  of  Providence  for  him  to 
remain  where  he  was,  surrounded  by  the  environment 
of  that  destiny  which  had  clearly  been  prepared  for 
him.  She  set  herself  to  forget  the  fond  dream  of 
working  to  support  him,  with  its  pleasant  delights  of 

H  I  2 


The  Shadow 

being  herself  his  only  companion  and  instructor.  She 
put  that  thought  out  of  her  heart,  as  an  object  too 
apparent  and  obvious  in  a  world  of  occult  purposes, 
as  an  aspiration  too  beautiful  for  accomplishment  in  a 
form  of  existence  meant  only  for  discipline.  He 
must  grow  up  in  the  surroundings  of  his  father  ;  others 
who  knew  this  English  world  must  train  him  for  the 
fulfilment  of  his  duties  ;  he  belonged  to  society  as 
well  as  to  herself;  God  had  not  meant  him  for  her 
selfish  pleasure  and  delight,  but  for  Himself  and  His 
divine  purpose.  So  she  reasoned  with  herself,  and  so 
she  brought  herself  to  the  difficult  temper  of 
renunciation. 

Besides,  under  the  greater  kindness  of  Miss  Grafton, 
Christopher  was  beginning  to  enjoy  life  at  Glevering  ; 
he  was  bright  and  cheerful,  his  eyes  often  shone 
with  laughter,  he  talked  with  excitement  of  the  many 
amusements  which  the  place  provided.  If  when  he 
was  hopping  from  pattern  to  pattern  on  one  of  the 
carpets,  he  encountered  Mrs.  Ryder,  he  did  not  now 
stop  dead  and,  holding  his  breath,  wait  for  her  to 
pass,  but  said  cheerfully,  "  Hullo,  Mrs.  Ryder !  "  which 
though  it  seldom  drew  a  word  from  the  hurrying 
black  rat,  seemed  to  relieve  Christopher  of  the  memory 
of  his  old  fear.  Then,  too,  he  had  made  a  secret 
acquaintance  with  one  of  the  garden  boys  who  knew 
where  all  the  birds  would  build  their  nests  in  spring, 
who  could  catch  hedgehogs  and  squirrels  rather  more 
easily  than  he  could  spud  plantains  out  of  the  lawn, 
and  who  had  offered  to  sell  Christopher  a  pair  of 
white  mice  in  a  wooden  cage  with  a  revolving  wheel, 
for  one  shilling  and  sixpence. 


A  Sudden  Change 

The  hedges  full  of  mystery  ;  the  woods  full  of  life  ; 
the  river  with  its  roach  and  gudgeon ;  the  ponds 
with  their  carp ;  the  stables  with  horse-boxes,  stalls, 
coach-houses,  hay  lofts  and  harness-rooms ;  the  farm 
with  its  barns,  cowsheds,  pig-styes,  stables,  and  fowl- 
houses  ;  the  enchanting  gardens  ;  the  wide  and  windy 
spaces  of  the  park — everything  in  this  wonderful 
world,  so  different  from  the  prairie,  fed  the  ardent 
mind  of  the  boy  with  a  constant  enthusiasm.  Over 
and  over  again  he  said  to  his  mother :  "  Oh,  isn't 
it  a  lovely  place  ?  If  there  were  no  lessons,  and  if 
Uncle  Richard  and  Aunt  Isabel  would  go  away  and 
let  Only-the-Clockwork  and  his  Birdie  come  and 
take  care  of  us,  wouldn't  Glevering  be  just  like 
heaven,  mother  ?  and  wouldn't  we  enjoy  ourselves  and 
be  frightfully  happy  ? " 

All  this,  we  may  be  sure,  made  it  easier  for  Mary 
Grafton  to  bear  the  dependence  of  her  position,  and 
even  helped  her  to  put  out  of  her  heart  the  rather 
quixotic  but  quite  pardonable  notion  of  working  to 
support  Christopher  in  London. 

The  clergyman  who  came  to  consult  about  the 
chaplaincy  at  Glevering  made  no  very  great  impres- 
sion on  the  anxious  mother,  tie  was  a  spare,  pale- 
faced,  dark-featured  man,  well  advanced  in  middle 
life,  and  with  no  striking  force  of  personality.  His 
name  was  John  Kindred ;  he  had  worked  ever 
since  his  ordination  in  a  destitute  quarter  of  London. 
The  death  of  his  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  devotedly 
attached  and  of  whom  the  bishop  had  said  that  she 
was  worth  a  leash  of  curates,  had  broken  him  down 
and  rendered  him  unfit  to  maintain  single-handed 

117 


The  Shadow 

the  grim  contest  with  privation  and  iniquity  in  its 
most  savage  and  ferocious  shape.  The  two  little  girls 
of  the  marriage  went  to  live  with  his  father  and 
mother  in  their  rectory  among  the  Cumberland 
mountains,  and  John  Kindred,  with  the  help  of 
the  bishop,  sought  work  of  a  light  and  undistressing 
nature  which  would  support  him  till  he  was  once  more 
fit  for  the  struggle  in  London. 

Sir  Matthew  did  not  appear  at  luncheon  that  day. 
When  the  meal  was  finished  Christopher  took  Mr. 
Kindred's  hand  and  went  with  him  into  the  garden. 
Isabel  Grafton  and  Mary  looked  at  each  other  as  the 
spare  and  threadbare  figure  of  the  clergyman  passed 
before  the  drawing-room  window.  "  Well,"  asked 
Mrs.  Grafton,  "  what  opinion  have  you  formed  ? " 

"  He  seems  simple  and  kind,"  Mary  answered. 

"  Not  too  simple,  I  think,  and  not  too  kind,  I 
hope,"  commented  Miss  Grafton.  "  His  chief  recom- 
mendation is  that  he  has  no  fads ;  we  shall  see  if  he 
will  do." 

Mr.  Kindred  made  a  more  favourable  impression 
on  Mary  at  dinner,  Sir  Matthew  still  absenting 
himself  from  the  table ;  afterwards  in  the  drawing- 
room  even  Isabel  became  interested  in  his  answers 
to  her  questions  concerning  the  problems  of  London 
poverty.  Both  ladies  perceived  that  behind  the  worn 
and  pallid  face  of  this  little  quiet  clergyman,  there 
was  a  mind  of  resource  and  resolution. 

When  Mr.  Kindred  came  to  take  up  his  quarters  at 
Glevering  he  was  given  a  suite  of  small  rooms  in  the 
bachelors'  wing — a  bedroom,  a  room  for  his  meals, 
and  a  schoolroom.  Christopher  now  took  all  his 


A  Sudden  Change 

meals  with  the  tutor.  Mary  saw  scarcely  anything 
of  the  clergyman  except  in  the  chapel,  which  was  now 
thrown  open  for  people  on  the  estate  and  for  those 
of  the  villagers  who  were  dissatisfied  with  the  Rector. 
Mr.  Kindred  lived  entirely  in  his  quarters,  and  was 
instructed  by  Mrs.  Ryder  how  to  leave  the  upper  floor 
by  a  staircase  which  did  not  communicate  with  the 
centre  part  of  the  mansion.  Christopher  was  told 
by  Miss  Grafton  that  if  he  should  encounter  Sir 
Matthew  when  he  was  walking  in  the  park  with  the 
tutor  he  was  to  raise  his  hat  and  pass  on,  never  on 
any  account  was  he  to  stop  and  speak.  Miss  Grafton 
had  explained  to  the  tutor  in  a  single  phrase  that  Sir 
Matthew  did  not  attend  church  services. 

The  emptiness  of  Mary's  life  was  now  complete. 
She  had  no  occupations  ;  occasionally  she  accompanied 
Miss  Grafton  on  that  lady's  cold  and  inspector-like 
visits  to  the  cottagers ;  occasionally  she  was  provided 
with  some  such  work  as  knitting  woollen  garments 
for  poor  people.  For  the  most  part,  her  days  passed 
with  a  deadly  monotony,  rendered  still  more  difficult 
of  endurance  by  the  wholly  antipathetic  character  of 
Isabel. 

Gradually  the  long-suffering  Mary  perceived  that 
Miss  Grafton  was  pursuing  a  definite  purpose.  She 
was  improving  her  sister-in-law,  making  a  lady  of  her, 
making  her  a  woman  of  the  world.  All  the  books 
given  to  Mary  were  chosen  by  Isabel,  and  in  their 
walks  Miss  Grafton  would  examine  her  on  these 
interesting  and  formative  works.  Correction  of  certain 
habits  and  manners  was  also  continuous  throughout 
the  day,  not  in  a  spirit  the  least  unkind  or  vexatious, 

119 


The  Shadow 

but  rather  in  the  pleasant  and  amused  fashion  of  a 
proficient  authority  diverted  by  the  blunders  of  a 
tyro.  Mary  did  not  walk,  did  not  hold  herself,  did 
not  speak,  did  not  sit,  did  not  stand,  did  not  open 
a  door,  did  not  smile,  did  not  eat,  did  not  drink,  did 
not,  in  fact,  perform  any  of  the  mental  and  gymnastic 
operations  of  civilised  society  exactly  as  Miss  Grafton 
expected  them  to  be  performed.  "  I  am  afraid," 
she  said  once,  "that  you  will  never  acquire  the 
Graftonian  manner." 

The  Graftonian  manner,  be  it  said,  was  exemplified 
at  its  height  by  the  third  brother  of  Sir  Matthew, 
the  Right  Honourable  Edmund  Grafton,  who,  besides 
marrying  Lady  Emily  Jervis,  was  a  Secretary  of  State 
with  every  prospect  of  becoming  Prime  Minister. 
This  was  the  bright  particular  star  of  the  Grafton 
family,  a  lineal  descendant  of  a  race  which  ever  since 
its  first  mention  in  history  had  made  money  and 
gained  lands  by  its  patriotism.  A  man  urbane  with- 
out geniality,  charming  without  sincerity,  a  great 
scholar  and  a  popular  speaker,  a  dignified  statesman 
and  an  adroit  politician — in  everything  an  aristocrat, 
touching  the  universe  with  the  encouraging  hand  of 
patronage,  and  taking  good  care  that  the  universe  at 
some  of  its  dirtier  points  did  not  sully  the  whiteness 
of  his  hand. 

Isabel  Grafton  believed  that  she,  too,  was  urbane, 
charming,  cultured,  and  adroit  It  was  her  chief 
pride  that  the  Graftons  delighted  so  many  people 
whom  they  regarded,  if  not  with  scorn  or  detestation, 
at  least  with  amused  disdain.  She  took  the  curtseys 
of  villagers  for  tributes  to  her  charm  of  manner  quite 

120 


A  Sudden  Change 

as  much  as  to  the  power  of  her  position.  She 
believed — possibly  with  some  truth — that  people  were 
proud  of  her  calls  and  visits,  and  boasted  among 
their  neighbours  that  Miss  Grafton  of  Glevering  had 
been  to  see  them. 

In  vain  did  this  imperious  and  well-satisfied  lady 
seek  to  give  her  sister-in-law  from  the  prairie  that 
final  grace  of  civilisation,  that  last  finishing  touch  of 
aristocracy  and  culture,  the  Graftonian  manner.  Mary, 
with  her  solemn  dark  eyes,  her  gentle  tenderness, 
her  quiet  and  profound  spirituality,  could  not  be 
made  to  hold  her  head  in  the  air,  to  stiffen  her  back- 
bone, to  speak  with  a  telling  incisiveness,  to  regard 
the  earth  with  the  patronising  gaze  of  a  superior  being. 

But  Isabel's  vivid  and  masterful  companionship 
was  not  without  its  effects  on  this  subdued  and 
self-effacing  nature.  Mary  perceived,  the  more  she 
felt  the  impact  of  this  hard  mind,  the  infinite 
beauty  of  the  Christ  character.  Just  as  opposition 
saved  John  Bunyan  from  despair  and  roused  him 
from  himself  to  defend  a  truth  dearer  than  his  own 
soul,  even  touching  his  darkened  mind  with  the 
wholesome  sense  of  humour,  so  Mary  Grafton, 
roused  from  her  own  struggles  to  contemplate  irre- 
ligiousness  in  the  concrete,  became  a  more  vigorous 
and  attentive  personality. 

She  began  to  study  her  sister-in-law  with  interest. 
Sometimes  in  controversy  she  smiled  at  opinions  so 
trivial  and  so  at  variance  with  the  universal  truth 
of  things  as  to  be  amusing.  She  defended  her  own 
point  of  view  with  a  quiet  composure,  entirely  free 
from  sullenness.  Isabel,  it  must  be  said,  did  not 

121 


The  Shadow 

resent  this  opposition ;  she  would  have  preferred 
surrender  to  Graftonian  philosophy,  but  she  welcomed 
the  spirit  and  vivacity  which  began  to  show  in  her 
sister-in-law's  manner. 

"  Mary  is  waking  up,"  she  said  to  her  brother 
one  evening  ;  "  I  think  we  might  begin  to  think  of 
getting  her  married." 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Mr.  Peter 
Richards  was  thrown  at  the  head  of  Mary  Grafton. 
This  gentleman  was  a  widower,  and  one  whose  bereave- 
ment might  truthfully  be  described  by  a  word  of 
greater  blessing.  From  the  day  when  he  led  his 
wife  to  the  altar  that  spirited  lady  had  led  him  by 
the  nose  into  the  last  place  in  the  world  he  desired 
to  frequent,  the  vortex  of  society  ;  and  in  the  vortex 
of  society  Mr.  Richards  had  spun  like  a  helpless 
molecule  for  a  matter  of  five-and-twenty  years. 
Released  from  this  gyration  he  had  retired  to  his 
house  in  Gloucestershire,  and  for  eighteen  months 
had  enjoyed  the  perfect  restfulness  afforded  by  his 
hobbies  of  collecting  prints,  growing  carnations,  and 
experimenting  on  his  body  with  every  patent  medicine 
whose  advertisement  hypnotised  his  senses. 

"  Mary  is  the  very  wife  for  him,"  said  Isabel.  "  He 
will  rejoice  to  discover  a  woman  in  the  world  who  is 
meek  and  pliant.  It  will  give  him  the  opportunity  of 
paying  back  old  scores." 

"There  seems  a  happy  suitability,"  replied  the 
baronet,  "  in  making  Mrs.  Richard  plural  by  a  second 
marriage.  Add  the  '  s '  by  all  means." 

Mary,  quite  unsuspicious,  was  kind  and  delightful 
to  the  middle-aged  Mr.  Richards,  and  found  pleasure 

122 


A  Sudden  Change 

in  visiting  his  beautiful  garden  and  looking  over  his 
portfolios  of  prints.  He  seemed  to  her  one  of  the 
quietest  and  saddest  old  gentlemen  in  the  world,  and 
out  of  pure  sympathy,  without  effort,  she  made  a 
pleasant  impression  on  his  heart. 

Miss  Grafton  began  to  entertain.  Mary  was  pro- 
vided with  new  raiment  and  made  a  figure  at  the 
dinner-table.  Finally  Edmund  Grafton  and  Lady 
Emily  came  on  a  visit  to  Glevering,  and  the  great 
house  was  filled  with  distinguished  and  important 
people.  In  the  midst  of  this  galaxy  Mary  made  a 
dark,  silent,  and  beautiful  figure,  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  the  mournful  old  gentleman  chosen  by  Isabel 
for  her  future  husband. 

"  My  sister-in-law,"  said  that  shrewd  lady  to  her 
victim,  "  will  never  dazzle  the  world,  I  am  afraid.  It 
is  not  that  she  lacks  beauty  or  intelligence,  but; 
the  inclination.  I  am  positively  alarmed  by  her 
Puritanism." 

Mr.  Richards  would  wander  to  Mary's  side  in  the 
drawing-room  and  together  they  would  sit  quite  out- 
side the  brilliant  circle,  talking  in  low  voices  and  with 
many  pauses  of  the  weather,  the  amount  of  sickness 
in  the  world,  the  sorrows  and  trials  of  life,  and  other 
subjects  of  a  similarly  reflective  character. 

Mary,  who  dreaded  Edmund  Grafton's  immense 
superiority — he  was  like  a  being  from  another  world 
— and  who  felt  that  the  cold  eyes  of  Lady  Emily 
were  a  pair  of  balances  eternally  engaged  in  weighing 
the  intellectual  development  of  every  person  they 
regarded  with  a  polar  stare,  naturally  derived  from 
the  simplicity  of  Mr.  Richards'  society  a  feeling  of 

123 


The  Shadow 

security  and  relief.  She  began  to  consider  him  in  the 
light  of  an  old  friend. 

It  really  seemed  that  the  plot  of  Isabel  was  working 
to  a  most  happy  and  successful  conclusion. 

When  the  house  party  dispersed,  and  Glevering 
resumed  its  dead  monotony,  the  intimacy  of  Mary 
and  the  widower  continued  with  a  quiet  persistency. 
He  lent  her  books,  occasionally  wrote  to  her,  and 
would  drive  over  once  or  twice  a  week  to  Glevering, 
sometimes  carrying  Mary  and  Isabel  back  to  his 
house,  or  taking  them  to  a  neighbouring  place  of 
historic  interest. 

Winter  passed,  spring  came,  and  summer  grew  to 
its  glory. 

Christopher  was  flourishing  under  the  tuition  of 
Mr.  Kindred.  A  greater  brightness  was  visible  in 
his  young  eyes,  he  became  an  omnivorous  reader, 
he  was  hungrily  interested  in  Nature,  rhapsodised 
about  the  colours  of  flowers,  was  intoxicated  by  their 
scents,  sat  up  at  night  to  watch  the  throbbing  of  the 
vault  of  heaven,  no  longer  found  a  delicious  sweetness 
in  stealing  to  whispered  treaties  with  the  garden-boy. 
Mary  watched  her  son  with  loving  and  satisfied  eyes. 
She  was  no  longer  so  essential  to  his  happiness, 
but  in  his  happiness  she  was  glad.  His  sensitive 
mind,  expanding  to  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the 
physical  universe,  counted  as  waste  all  hours  undevoted 
to  the  stories,  the  poems,  the  parables,  the  delightful 
intimacies  of  his  tutor.  It  was  with  Mr.  Kindred  he 
went  his  long  walks,  with  Mr.  Kindred  that  he  passed 
lingeringly  beside  the  flowered  border  of  the  gardens, 
with  Mr.  Kindred  that  he  loved  to  sit  in  the  study 

124 


A  Sudden  Change 

asking  questions  and  listening  to  the  wonders  of  the 
world. 

"  Know  you  what  it  is  to  be  a  child  ? "  cries 
Francis  Thompson.  "  It  is  to  be  something  very 
different  from  the  man  of  to-day.  It  is  to  have  a 
spirit  yet  streaming  from  the  waters  of  baptism  ;  it  is 
to  believe  in  love,  to  believe  in  loveliness,  to  believe 
in  belief;  it  is  to  be  so  little  that  the  elves  can  reach 
to  whisper  in  your  ear  ;  it  is  to  turn  pumpkins  into 
coaches,  and  mice  into  horses,  lowness  into  loftiness, 
and  nothing  into  everything." 

John  Kindred,  transplanted  from  the  rough  courage, 
the  sordid  destitution,  the  degrading  vices,  and  the 
blank  ugliness  of  a  London  parish,  found  in  this 
beautiful  paradise  the  soul  of  a  child  opening  to  the 
wonder  of  existence.  He  from  East  London,  the  child 
from  the  prairie  ;  he  in  the  shadow  of  death,  the  child 
in  the  bitterness  of  an  alien  dominion.  The  man 
rested  on  the  child,  the  child  flung  himself  into  the 
arms  of  the  man.  They  loved  each  other  like  father 
and  son. 

Because  Christopher  was  so  perfectly  happy,  Mary 
grew  gradually  more  secure  in  her  position.  This 
spiritual  contentment  began  to  show  in  her  face. 
The  look  of  tragedy  passed,  a  profound  sweetness 
illuminated  her  dark  eyes,  a  gracious  gentleness 
clothed  her  lips.  She  often  thanked  God  in  her 
prayers  that  she  had  submitted  to  the  discipline 
which  had  proved  so  deep  a  blessing. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  Glevering  when  Mr. 
Richards,  who  had  lately  shown  the  most  intense 
interest  in  Mary's  health,  recommending  her  day  after 

125 


The  Shadow 

day  to  take  a  particular  medicine  which  he  could 
solemnly  assure  her  had  saved  his  own  life,  and 
imploring  her  to  wear  an  electric  belt  which  he 
asserted  to  be  the  surest  protection  in  the  world 
against  every  disease  imaginable,  came  one  day  to 
Sir  Matthew's  house  and,  walking  with  Mary  in  the 
garden,  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  would  remove 
all  his  anxieties  about  her  health  if  she  would  place 
herself  entirely  under  his  care  and  submit  herself  to 
the  affectionate  regimen  of  a  devoted  husband. 

Mary  was  so  surprised  by  this  offer  that  she  refused 
it  with  a  promptitude  and  decision  lacking  in  all 
kindness.  The  tone  of  her  voice,  the  energy  of  her 
manner,  proved  the  most  suitable  balm  for  the 
widower's  heart.  He  was  devotedly  grateful  that 
a  woman  so  evidently  masterful  and  decisive  had 
refused  him.  He  thanked  her  in  a  nervous  haste,  said 
that  she  was  perfectly  right,  announced  his  intention 
of  sending  her  a  bottle  of  the  medicine  he  had  been 
recommending,  and  lifting  his  hat,  hurried  away  like 
a  man  escaping  from  earthquake  or  plague. 

Isabel's  infallible  instinct  informed  her  of  this  crisis. 

She  took  Mary  to  task  with  considerable  harshness. 
Finally,  finding  her  sister-in-law  immovable,  she  fired 
a  ringing  shot.  "  I  should  have  thought  a  nature 
like  yours  would  welcome  deliverance  from  a  position 
of  dependence." 

Mary  thought  over  those  words  and  they  hurt  her. 

But  Christopher  was  happy.  She  could  not  take 
him  away.  Even  if  she  had  money  and  security  for 
the  future,  it  would  now  be  cruelty  to  remove  the 
child  from  a  setting  where  his  young  soul  was  radiant 

126 


A  Sudden  Change 

with  delight.  To  leave  him,  of  course,  was  impossible. 
Maternal  passion  had  made  her  refuse  so  hotly  an 
offer  of  marriage  ;  her  soul  was  her  son's,"  and  she 
must  live  with  him  to  her  life's  end. 

For  some  weeks  she  was  conscious  of  a  deepening 
displeasure  on  Isabel's  part.  Again  and  again  she 
knew  the  bitterness  of  exile.  Again  and  again  she 
recalled  the  words — 

"  How  salt  that  bread  doth  taste  them  then  shalt  know 
That  others  give  thee,  and  how  hard  the  way 
Or  up  or  down  another  stair  to  go." 

Christopher  detected  her  sadness.  "What  makes 
you  unhappy  ?  "  he  asked,  his  arms  round  her  neck, 
his  puzzled  gaze  searching  her  eyes.  "  Has  Aunt 
Isabel  been  unkind  to  you,  mother  ?  I  thought  she 
was  trying  to  be  nice.  Mr.  Kindred  said  you  would 
soften  her  nature."  She  tried  to  comfort  him,  and 
because  he  was  so  anxious  for  her  to  be  happy  in 
his  natural  wish  to  remain  at  Glevering,  he  was 
easily  deceived. 

But  a  new  trouble  arose.  Mr.  Kindred  was  called 
at  the  beginning  of  winter  to  Cumberland,  where 
his  father  was  dying.  A  few  weeks  after  the  old 
rector  died,  and  John  Kindred  returned  only  to  take 
his  leave  of  Christopher  and  Glevering.  He  was 
going  to  take  the  dead  father's  place  as  rector  of  the 
Cumberland  village. 

With  his  departure  everything  changed  for  Mary 
and  Christopher.  A  new  chaplain  came  who  was  as 
hard  as  John  Kindred  had  been  sympathetic,  a  rough, 
business-like,  discontented  nature,  who  grew  impatient 
with  Christopher's  blunders,  snubbed  the  child's 

127 


The  Shadow 

questions,  treated  his  love  of  Nature  as  a  disease,  made 
the  Almighty  not  a  father  but  a  schoolmaster. 

This  was  bad  enough,  but  Isabel  Grafton's  manner 
grew  daily  more  wounding  and  scornful.  She  showed 
Mary  without  reticence  of  any  kind  that  she  considered 
her  continued  presence  at  Glevering  an  affront.  Often 
Mary  sat  through  meal  after  meal  without  a  word 
being  addressed  to  her. 

Mrs.  Ryder,  who  had  hitherto  submitted  to  the 
childlike  tyrannies  of  Christopher,  began  to  play  the 
spy  upon  him. 

One  afternoon  when  Mary  and  Isabel  were  at  tea, 
Mrs.  Ryder  entered  the  room  and  said  that  Christopher 
had  just  arrived  drenched  to  the  skin,  having  fallen 
into  the  river.  "All  his  nice  things,"  she  concluded 
petulantly,  "  are  ruined." 

Isabel  heard  her  out.  "  Put  him  to  bed  instantly  ; 
to-morrow  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Clarkson,"  she  added, 
referring  to  the  new  chaplain.  "  I  shall  tell  him  to 
cane  Master  Christopher." 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  said  Mary  very  quietly. 
She  was  quite  white. 

Isabel  turned  and  surveyed  her  with  insulting 
disdain.  In  an  electric  silence  Mrs.  Ryder  walked 
soundlessly  to  the  door.  "This  is  my  house,"  said 
Isabel,  with  a  stinging  contempt,  "  and  I  must  ask 
you  to  keep  your  orders  till  you  have  one  of  your  own." 

As  Mrs.  Ryder  closed  the  door,  Mary  rose  from  her 
chair.  "  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  stay  here,"  she 
said.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  a  strange  horror,  as  though 
her  soul  were  appalled  by  the  other's  inhumanity. 
"  I  shall  take  Christopher  away  to-morrow." 

128 


A  Sudden  Change 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  sit  down." 

Mary  remained  standing. 

"If  you  wish  to  go  away,"  said  Miss  Grafton, 
"neither  Sir  Matthew  nor  I  will  hinder  you.  You 
are  perfectly  free  to  go ;  Sir  Matthew  will  make  you 
a  small  allowance,  so  that  you  may  live  in  tolerable 
decency.  I  had  intended  to  make  this  proposal  in 
a  day  or  two's  time.  ,  Your  extraordinary  conduct  has 
only  hastened  it.  We  both  feel  that  you  and  Chris- 
topher are  not  quite  congenial  to  this  environment. 
Please  set  your  mind  at  rest  concerning  the  caning  ; 
since  Christopher  is  going,  I  will  say  nothing  to  his 
tutor.  Very  well,  then,  that  is  settled ;  you  may 
behave  yourself  quietly  and  with  common  sense." 

Mary  regarded  her  quietly.  "  Why  did  you  not 
make  this  proposal  when  we  first  came,  when  I  asked 
you  to  let  us  go  ?  " 

"  There  were  reasons." 

"  You  said  Christopher  was  Sir  Matthew's  heir." 

"  The  likelihood  of  his  ever  having  Glevering  is  now 
happily  removed.  You  must  put  that  hope  out  of 
your  head." 

"  I  see." 

"  You  will  be  perfectly  free  to  bring  him  up  as  you 
wish."  Isabel  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  But  I  hope 
you  will  teach  him  to  honour  his  name  and  never  bring 
it  into  disrepute." 

Mary  said,  "  I  shall  take  no  allowance  from  Sir 
Matthew ;  I  shall  work  for  my  son.  I  have  friends 
who  will  help  me." 

"  We  will  discuss  that  to-morrow.  In  the  mean- 
time, no  scenes,  I  beg  you." 

129  K 


The  Shadow 

That  night  Mary  wrote  to  Mrs.  Grindley,  and  told 
Christopher,  who  had  been  put  to  bed  by  Mrs.  Ryder's 
order,  that  they  were  going  away  from  Glevering. 

He  flung  his  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her. 
"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  mother.  Can  we  go  to  Cumber- 
land ?  I  should  like  to  have  Mr.  Kindred  for  my 
tutor,  if  I  could.  I  love  Mr.  Kindred  !  " 

"We  cannot  go  to  Cumberland,"  she  answered, 
caressing  him. 

"  Where  are  we  going  to,  then  ? " 

"  To  London." 

The  word  had  an  ominous  sound  in  the  child's  ears. 
He  lifted  back  his  head  from  his  mother's  face,  searched 
her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then  let  it  sink  once  more 
to  the  warmth  of  her  cheek.  He  lay  there  wondering 
and  silent,  with  confused  images  floating  in  his  mind 
and  the  sound  of  the  word  "  London  "  echoing  in  the 
silent  places  of  his  soul. 


130 


CHAPTER   IX. 
A    NEW    PHASE    OF    EXISTENCE 

IT  was  with  a  feeling  of  spiritual  exultation  and 
mental  release  that  Mary  Grafton  set  out  from 
Glevering  to  face  the  world  with  her  son.  In  her 
heart  was  a  sense  of  gratefulness  which  welled  up  like 
a  spring  of  crystal  water  ;  in  her  soul  was  a  psalm  that 
sang  with  the  ecstasy  of  a  lark  in  the  azure  heights 
of  freedom.  This  going  forth  from  bondage  was  a 
flight  into  paradise.  She  was  sick  of  splendour  and 
a-weary  of  idleness.  Not  to  be  waited  upon  but  to 
render  service  was  the  desire  of  her  heart.  Like 
Thoreau,  when  he  escaped  from  civilisation  to  seek 
Nature  in  the  woods,  this  daughter  of  the  New  World, 
breaking  joyously  free  from  an  ancient  and  an  alien 
stagnation  of  soul,  wished  to  live  deliberately,  to  front 
only  the  essential  facts  of  life.  "  I  wanted  to  live 
deep,"  said  Thoreau,  "  and  suck  out  all  the  marrow 
of  life,  to  live  so  sturdily  and  Spartan-like  as  to  put  to 
rout  all  that  was  not  life." 

Mary  Grafton  had  a  deeper  impulse  in  her  heart. 
She  wanted  to  work  out  her  motherhood,  to  taste 
that  magic  draught  to  the  uttermost.  The  misgiving 
and  fear  of  the  world  which  had  operated  at  first  to 
keep  her  a  prisoner  at  Glevering  had  given  way  of 
late  in  the  knowledge  of  mankind  and  society  brought 

11  K   2 


The  Shadow 

to  her  mind  by  modern  reading.  At  the  moment 
of  her  rupture  with  Isabel  Grafton  she  was  confident 
of  her  power  to  find  a  place  in  the  world's  business. 
The  deepening  of  her  religious  consciousness  in  the 
solitude  of  that  idle  and  unfriendly  existence  at 
Glevering  had  created  in  her  soul  the  most  perfect 
trust  in  the  love  and  providence  of  Heaven.  She 
was  afraid  neither  for  herself  nor  for  Christopher. 
She  trusted  humanity  ;  she  believed  in  God  ;  the 
whole  strength  of  her  motherhood  was  active  for 
service. 

It  must  now  be  told  that  on  the  eve  of  her  departure 
for  the  East  little  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  had  sent 
Mary  a  five-pound  note,  and  had  told  her  that  if 
ever  she  should  feel  unhappy  or  distressed  at  Glevering 
she  was  to  take  the  train  for  London  and  go  at 
once  to  Mrs.  Grindley,  who  would  do  everything 
to  provide  her  with  the  means  of  earning  bread. 
Possessed  of  this  affectionate  gift,  Mary  was  able 
to  decline  all  the  financial  propositions  of  Sir  Matthew, 
presented  and  almost  forced  upon  her  by  Isabel. 
She  would  take  no  money  at  all,  no,  not  even  for 
her  fares.  When  Isabel  insisted  that  Christopher 
should  not  be  robbed  of  his  inheritance,  she  replied 
that  Christopher  belonged  to  her  and  had  no  other 
inheritance  but  her  devotion.  She  went  out  from 
Glevering  with  courage  and  freedom,  she  escaped 
from  dependence  with  self-respect. 

With  the  five-pound  note  of  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith 
she  paid  for  the  tickets  to  London,  and  with  the 
balance  she  faced  the  world. 

It  was  towards  evening  when  they  reached  London. 

ft  2 


A  New  Phase  of  Existence 

Snow  had  fallen  in  the  morning ;  fog,  yellowing  as 
it  came,  had  crept  up  the  river  at  noon  and  now 
hung  in  orange  density  over  the  dripping  housetops. 
The  depression  of  the  lamplit  streets,  thick  with 
snow-water  and  crowded  with  a  melancholy  multitude 
forcing  its  dismal  way  homewards,  was  bad  enough 
to  chill  the  enthusiasm  of  this  young  widow  and  to 
fill  the  mind  of  the  child  with  alarm  ;  but  they  were 
both  quite  happy.  Christopher  gazed  out  of  the  dirty 
window  of  the  four-wheeler  as  he  had  looked  from 
the  window  of  Sir  Matthew's  brougham  on  the  drive 
at  Glevering.  Everything  interested  him  ;  he  was 
entranced  by  the  interminable  shops,  the  unending 
procession  of  humanity,  the  chiaroscuro  of  the  wet 
and  foggy  streets  with  their  lighted  windows,  their 
multitudinous  lamps,  their  shining  pavements,  their 
pools  of  water,  and  the  lumbering  thunder  of  vehicles 
moving  through  the  orange  air  with  misty  lamps. 
The  sense  of  a  great  army  which  beat  upon  his 
confused  brain  from  this  dark  and  mysterious  world, 
the  feeling  of  some  unifying  and  yet  unintelligible 
purpose  in  the  haste  and  silence  of  this  ceaseless 
humanity — these  things,  while  they  perplexed  and 
overawed  the  child,  filled  him  with  intensest  interest 
and  kept  his  gaze  fixed  and  fascinated  on  the  streets. 
Such  a  world  as  this  he  had  never  visualised  ;  none  of 
his  nightmares  had  revealed  to  him  an  atmosphere 
so  haunting,  a  multitude  so  doomful. 

Once  again  Mary  Grafton  found  herself  going  to 
the  house  of  strangers.  But  now  she  was  not  appre- 
hensive nor  disquieted ;  the  letter  from  Mrs.  Grindley 
had  been  kind  and  gentle ;  besides,  she  was  better 

133 


The  Shadow 

acquainted  with  the  world,  and  her  purpose  in  seeking 
these  strangers  was  not  to  live  on  charity  but  to 
find  work  to  earn  her  bread.  Nevertheless,  she  was 
going  to  strangers  ;  a  certain  disquiet  of  mind  on 
this  account  prevented  her  from  feeling  the  spell 
of  the  murky  city. 

They  arrived  in  Merrick  Square  soon  after  six 
o'clock.  The  cabman,  who  opened  the  jammed  door 
of  his  vehicle  with  a  tug  which  made  its  window  rattle, 
and  whose  voluminous  garments  steamed  like  the 
flanks  of  his  little  horse,  put  his  face  inside  and 
inquired  with  a  spreading  smile,  accompanied  by  a 
long-drawn  snivel,  if  they  had  enjoyed  the  scenery. 
"  Sorry  to  get  out,  aren't  you  ?  "  he  said,  ducking  his 
head  and  winking  at  Christopher ;  "  like  to  go  for  a 
turn  round  Regent's  Park,  wouldn't  you  ?  Oh — ah  ! 
But,  mind  you,  to  enjoy  a  London  Particular  properly 
you  want  to  be  on  the  box.  You  can  taste  it  there, 
eat  it,  drink  it,  masticate  it,  chew  it,  swallow  it — 
and  ain't  it  delicious  !  Talk  about  pea-soup,  or  snuff- 
pudding,  or  laughing-gas !  Not  in  it.  My  little 
boy — what's  a  cripple,  with  one  of  his  lungs  a  fair 
radical — why,  he  lives  on  fog.  It's  meat,  drink,  and 
medicine  to  him,  straight.  If  it  wasn't  for  fog  he'd 
be  dead  in  no  time  ;  vanish  like  a  beanfeast  or  benefit, 
he  would.  Summer-time  we're  that  anxious  about 
him,  his  mother  hardly  likes  to  leave  him  alone  for 
two  minutes  together  ;  but  directly  winter  comes 
we  know  he's  safe  for  six  months  at  least.  Safe  ? 
Yes !  he  could  no  more  die  in  a  fog  than  a  man 
could  die  of  starvation  in  a  coffee-shop ;  a  fog,  lady, 
kind  of  banks  him  inside  and  out ;  he  breathes  it  in 

134 


A  New  Phase  of  Existence 

at  his  pores  and  leans  against  it,  like  a  willing-to- 
work-but-won't  leans  against  a  public-house." 

Christopher  stared  at  the  man  with  eyes  of  wonder. 
It  was  his  first  glimpse  of  a  Londoner. 

When  Mary  asked  what  she  should  pay,  the  cabman 
protested  that  he  must  leave  the  matter  to  her,  only 
venturing  to  suggest  that  he  hoped  the  lady  would  not 
altogether  overlook  the  fact  that  his  horse  was  getting 
on  in  years,  that  the  price  of  oats  was  rising,  that  this 
was  his  first  fare  that  day,  that  he  had  a  long  way  to 
go  back  with  no  chance  of  a  fare  on  such  a  night,  and 
that  his  little  boy,  who  was  a  cripple  and  one  of  whose 
lungs  was  a  radical,  always  asked  him  first  thing  when 
he  got  home  at  night  if  he  had  driven  a  generous  lady 
with  a  little  boy  the  very  image  of  himself. 

Mary  presented  two  shillings,  a  coin  at  which  the 
cabman  looked  with  a  most  dejected  countenance,  not 
venturing  to  touch  it. 

"  If  you  are  in  indigent  circumstances,"  he  said 
sorrowfully,  and  with  a  very  prolonged  snivel,  "  say 
so  at  once,  ma'am,  and  I  won't  take  a  farthing ;  I'd 
rather  not." 

Mary  offered  half-a-crown. 

"  Well,  if  you  can  afford  it,"  sighed  the  cabman, 
clucking  his  long  lips,  "  I  must  take  it.  But  I  had 
counted — I  can't  help  telling  you — on  three  shillings 
and  sixpence,  that  was  what  I  had  counted  on,  forty- 
two  pence,  two-and-forty  coppers.  All  the  time  I  was 
on  the  box,  with  the  fog  going  into  me,  and  the  steam 
coming  out  of  me,  my  feet  and  hands  perished  with 
the  cold,  and  my  nose  like  a  piece  of  lead  pipe,  I 
kept  saying  to  myself,  '  Cheer  up,  William,'  I  said,  '  it 

135 


may  be  four  shillings,  but  it  won't  never  be  less  than 
three-and-a-tanner,  three  bob  and  a  tizzy  at  the  lowest,' 
I  said  ;  '  for  you're  driving/  I  said, '  a  lady  and  a  mother 
who  knows  what  it  is  to  be  the  father  of  a  family,  and 
would  rather,  I'm  sure,  William,  go  without  a  new 
diamond  ring  or  a  bangup  petticoat,  than  starve  the 
children  of  an  honest,  hard-working  London  cabman.'  " 

To  this  pathetic  appeal  Mary  replied  by  adding  a 
shilling  to  the  half-a-crown,  and  the  cheerful  cabman, 
discovering  a  pocket  in  his  deeply  buried  trousers,  and 
a  purse  at  the  extreme  bottom  of  this  well-like  pocket, 
put  away  the  coins,  made  way  for  his  passengers  to 
alight,  and  said  that  for  twopence  extra  he  would  carry 
the  luggage  to  the  front  door,  and  even  put  it  inside 
the  hall. 

Our  travellers  had  the  door  opened  to  them  by  a 
neat  maid-servant,  who  smiled  most  pleasantly  and 
invited  them  to  come  in  with  a  real  and  cheerful 
greeting.  Before  they  were  well  in  the  hall,  a  door 
of  one  of  the  rooms  opened  and  Mrs.  Grindley  herself 
came  forward  to  welcome  her  visitors  with  the  greatest 
kindliness.  The  cabman  put  down  the  box  just  as 
these  greetings  came  to  an  end,  and  taking  off  his 
hat,  rubbed  a  red  handkerchief  over  his  forehead,  and 
heaved  a  sigh  vigorous  enough  to  flicker  the  gas  in  the 
hall  lamp. 

"  I've  brought  'em  safe,  ma'am,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Grindley,  with  one  of  his  pathetic  snivels,  "  and  very 
proud  I  am  ;  the  fog,  ma'am,  was  that  thick  coming 
along  that  many  an  experienced  cabman  might  have 
landed  'em  at  Kensal  Rise  or  Norwood,  instead  of  in 
Southwark  ;  oh,  ah  !  that  he  rnigh* " 

136 


A  New  Phase  of  Existence 

"Cabman,  if  you  blow  your  own  trumpet,"  said  Mrs. 
Grindley,  with  a  smile,  "  I  shall  not  give  you  a  cup  of 
cocoa  and  a  slice  of  cake.  You  should  be  humble  ; 
really,  to  hear  some  cabmen  talk  you  might  think 
they  were  Captain  Cooks  discovering  the  North  Pole. 
Jenny,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  neat  maid,  "  give  the 
cabman  a  cup  of  cocoa  and  a  slice  of  the  plum  cake, 
and  the  tract  about  people  who  blow  their  own  trumpet ; 
and  now,  my  dears,  come  into  the  warm.  Good-night, 
cabman  ;  study  to  be  quiet  and  modest  and  composed, 
and  make  as  few  crumbs  as  possible,  there's,  a  good 
man." 

Mary  and  Christopher  found  themselves  in  a  room 
so  small  after  the  great  apartments  of  Glevering  that 
it  was  almost  laughable.  But  a  cheerful  fire  was 
glowing  in  the  grate,  the  table  was  spread  for  high 
tea,  a  kettle  was  bubbling  on  the  hob,  and  the  little 
parlour  wore  a  look  of  such  unmistakable  comfort 
and  kind-heartedness  that  the  travellers  felt  them- 
selves to  be  almost  as  much  welcomed  by  the 
antimacassars,  the  arm-chairs,  the  fire,  and  the  teapot, 
as  by  the  beaming  mistress  of  the  house. 

When  they  had  warmed  themselves  at  the  fire,  and 
made  acquaintance  with  the  two  yellow-eyed  black 
cats,  Mrs.  Grindley  took  them  upstairs  and  showed 
them  their  bedrooms.  They  were  comfortably  but 
very  plainly  furnished  rooms,  with  texts  on  the  wall 
and  only  one  or  two  coloured  pictures,  from  ancient 
Christmas  numbers  of  the  Graphic. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  comfortable  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Grindley,  turning  up  the  gas.  "  They  are  smaller 
rooms,  I  expect,  than  what  you  have  been  accustomed 

137 


The  Shadow 

to  ;  but  it  isn't  the  distance  of  the  walls  that  makes  a 
room,  is  it  ? — no,  something  more  than  that  is  required 
to  convert  cubic  space  into  home.  You  know  that. 
Ah  !  I  know  you  do."  With  a  little  nod  to  Mary  she 
left  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Christopher,  in  a  whisper,  "  isn't 
she  a  perfect  old  dear  ? "  He  stopped  short  and  added, 
"  There's  a  cake  for  tea  with  almonds  on  top." 

Soon  after  they  had  descended  to  the  dining-room, 
Mr.  Grindley  came  home.  His  wife,  who  had  one  ot 
the  cats  in  her  lap,  heard  his  latchkey  in  the  door,  and 
carefully  placing  the  animal  on  the  hearthrug,  rose 
with  a  proud  smile,  saying,  "  My  dear  husband  has 
returned."  They  all  went  into  the  hall  to  greet  him. 
Christopher  was  struck  dumb  by  the  old  gentleman's 
bulk  and  by  the  broad  brim  of  his  stovepipe  hat. 
While  he  gazed  up  at  the  colossus,  Jenny  came  running 
up  the  back  stairs  to  take  off  the  master's  highlows  in 
the  hall,  and  Mrs.  Grindley  brought  his  carpet  slippers 
from  the  fire. 

"  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  Mrs.  Graftori  and  Son," 
said  the  old  gentleman,  leaning  a  hand  on  either  side 
of  the  hall  while  Jenny  slipped  off  the  highlows  and 
Mrs.  Grindley  slipped  on  a  warm  shoe.  "  I  hope  you 
will  both  be  happy  and  comfortable." 

Mr.  Grindley  then  entered  the  dining-room,  went 
to  the  grandfather  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
waited  for  the  others  to  assemble,  and  said  grace.  He 
then  sat  down  and  did  considerable  justice  to  his  wife's 
housekeeping.  After  their  meal  they  sat  round  the 
fire,  Old  Jack  smoking  his  churchwarden  pipe,  Mrs. 
Grindley  nursing  the  cats,  Christopher  watching  the 

138 


A  New  Phase   of  Existence 

huge  old  gentleman  with  unabated  amazement,  and 
Mary  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  interest  and 
gratitude  in  her  eyes. 

At  nine  o'clock  Jenny,  who  had  long  ago  cleared 
away  the  tea-things,  entered  the  room  and  placed  a 
large  family  Bible  on  the  table.  Mr.  Grindley  took 
his  place  there  and  opened  the  Book,  and  the  others 
turned  round  towards  him.  In  a  slow  but  quite 
undramatic  way  he  read  the  wonderful  fifteenth 
chapter  of  St.  Luke,  with  those  imperishable  parables 
of  the  lost  sheep,  the  piece  of  silver,  and  the  prodigal 
son  ;  then  slowly  closing  the  Book,  he  said,  after  a 
prolonged  pause,  "  Religion  is  summed  up  in  those 
three  parables  ;  it  lives  there,  all  of  it ;  and  the 
greatest  words  ever  uttered  on  earth  are  there  also : 
The  Son  of  Man  is  come  to  save  that  which  is  lost" 
He  pronounced  these  words  very  slowly.  Then  he 
said,  getting  up  from  his  chair,  "  Let  us  pray,"  and 
they  all  knelt  down  and  said  the  Lord's  Prayer.  They 
remained  silently  on  their  knees  for  a  few  moments, 
and  during  those  hushed  moments  Christopher,  who 
did  not  pray,  heard  in  his  soul  the  words  repeated 
again  and  again,  The  Son  of  Man  is  come  to  save  that 
which  is  lost.  They  seemed  in  some  inexplicable  way 
to  cling  about  the  processes  of  his  mind,  like  haunting 
music. 

When  Jenny  had  taken  away  the  big  Bible,  she 
inquired  if  she  should  put  Master  Christopher  to  bed, 
and  Christopher  rose  so  willingly  to  go  with  her  and 
refused  so  happily  his  mother's  offer  to  accompany 
him,  that  Mary  remained  quite  contented  and  at  ease 
with  her  host  and  hostess. 

139 


The  Shadow 

"  I  did  not  like  to  say  anything  before  Christopher," 
said  Mrs.  Grindley,  when  the  door  had  closed  and  they 
were  once  more  seated  round  the  fire,  "  in  case  you 
should  not  like  him  to  hear  us  discuss  the  future  ;  but 
we  think,  my  dear — of  course  we  mustn't  be  too  certain, 
but  we  may  allow  ourselves  to  hope,  may  we  not  ? — 
we  think  we  have  discovered  something  that  may  suit 
you.  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  thank  us  yet ;  you  must 
see  first  whether  it  will  do."  She  smiled  and  beamed 
and  passed  her  hands  slowly  and  caressingly  along  the 
soft  flanks  of  the  purring  cat  in  her  lap.  Old  Jack, 
who  had  filled  and  lighted  his  long  pipe,  sat  with  his 
eternal  calm  gazing  at  the  fire  and  smoking  with  the 
gravest  deliberation. 

"  It  is  something,"  said  Mrs.  Grindley,  "  of  a  pro- 
fessional nature.  One  of  our  sons,  who  is  married  and 
has  a  house  of  his  own,  is  connected  with  journalism  ; 
he  is  a  writer  and  has  to  do  principally  with  advertise- 
ments. We  applied  to  him  directly  we  received  your 
first  letter,  because  he  is  in  the  way  of  knowing  so 
many  people,  and  this  morning  he  sent  us  a  note 
which  really  looks  as  if  he  had  discovered  something 
suitable.  A  friend  of  his,  Mrs.  Dobb,  whose  profes- 
sional name  is  Madame  Tilly,  has  an  office  in  Bond 
Street  ;  she  is  consulted  by  ladies  of  fashion  about 
trouble/:  with  their  skin  and  their  hair — what  is  called 
nowadays  a  beauty  doctor.  It  sounds  a  little  vain,  and 
no  doubt  plenty  of  vain  people  consult  her,  but  our 
son  says  that  Madame  Tilly  is  a  thoroughly  good 
woman  and  assures  us  that  you  would  be  quite  happy 
with  her.  He  describes  her  as  a  genius,  whatever 
that  may  be.  What  the  duties  are,  we  do  not  know, 

140 


A  New  Phase  of  Existence 

but  they  would  be  light,  and  certainly  not  above  your 
strength.  The  salary  he  mentions  is  twenty- five  shillings 
a  week  to  begin  with,  and  this  would  be  increased  to 
thirty  shillings  if  you  found  yourself  able  to  assist  Mr. 
Dobb,  who  is  also  a  professional  in  his  business — but 
what  that  is  we  do  not  know  ;  our  son  does  not  mention 
it,  but  he  also  describes  Mr.  Dobb  as  a  genius.  If 
you  think  you  would  like  to  try  this  work,  my  dear, 
you  can  call  and  see  Madame  Tilly  to-morrow ;  but 
you  are  not  to  hurry,  and  you  are  not  to  be  anxious, 
for  there  is  plenty  of  time  and  plenty  of  kind  people 
in  the  world  who  will  help  you.  Jack,  my  dear, 
will  you  tell  our  friend  what  you  think  about  the 
matter  ? " 

Mr.  Grindley  continued  to  smoke  for  a  full  minute  ; 
then  he  removed  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  still  staring 
at  the  fire,  said,  "Twenty-five  shillings  a  week  is 
money  ;  I  should  take  it" 

He  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  day  revolving 
in  his  mind  the  proposal  of  his  son,  and  this  was  the 
weighty  conclusion  he  had  reached.  About  the  business 
of  a  beauty  doctor  he  knew  nothing  ;  it  sounded  to  him 
precarious  and  off  the  lines  of  sound  trade,  but  women 
he  regarded  as  the  basis  of  all  commerce. 

He  had  an  immense  respect  for  the  place  of  women 
in  political  economy ;  he  also  knew  that  the  shipping 
trade  could  not  pay  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  week 
to  a  young  widow  who  knew  nothing  about  anything. 

Mary  was  delighted  by  the  proposal.  Her  dreams 
had  come  true  at  last,  she  could  now  work  for  Chris- 
topher and  provide  for  him  and  keep  him  as  her  very 
own  son.  With  quiet  gratitude  she  accepted  the 

141 


The  Shadow 

suggestion  that  she  should  call  upon  Madame  Tilly 
on  the  following  day. 

A  yellow  sun  was  shining  over  the  damp  city  when 
Mary  got  out  of  an  omnibus  at  the  corner  of  Bond 
Street.  There  was  a  touch  of  rawness  in  the  air  ;  the 
chill  of  the  wet  pavement  struck  up  through  the  soles 
of  her  boots.  The  hurry  of  the  pedestrians,  the 
splashings  of  vehicles,  and  the  disorganised  arrange- 
ment of  the  shop  numbers  served  to  confuse  her,  to 
frighten  her  a  little,  and  made  her  nervous  of  success. 

She  found  the  place  at  last,  and  through  a  private 
door  which  stood  open  at  the  side  of  a  glove  shop, 
made  her  way  up  a  narrow  staircase  to  a  dirty  landing 
on  the  second  floor.  Here  she  found  the  name  of 
"  Madame  Tilly  "  painted  with  a  flourish  on  a  wooden 
door,  accompanied  by  the  request  that  visitors  should 
ring  the  bell.  She  rang  timidly,  and  waited  with  a 
beating  heart  on  the  doormat,  which  badly  wanted  a 
good  shaking. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  remarkable-looking  man, 
whose  face  instantly  awakened  some  dim  recollection 
in  her  mind.  Mary  felt  convinced  that  she  had  seen 
him  before.  He  wore  a  wide-brimmed  black  felt  hat 
and  an  inverness  cape,  which  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  an  actor  ;  he  was  cleanshaven,  lantern-jawed,  long- 
haired, and  his  eyes,  which  were  large  and  melancholy, 
disconcerted  Mary  by  the  mysterious  sorrow  with  which 
they  fixed  themselves  upon  her  in  a  prolonged  and 
rather  lugubrious  scrutiny. 

When  he  heard  her  name  and  the  object  of  her 
visit,  this  mysterious  individual  made  a  profound  bow 
and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  motioned  Mary  to  enter. 

142 


A  New  Phase  of  Existence 

He  then  closed  the  door,  crossed  the  room  to  an  arch- 
way covered  by  a  curtain  of  grey  velvet,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

The  pink  and  scented  room  in  which  Mary  found 
herself  was  handsomely  furnished  ;  there  were  palms 
in  pots  by  the  curtained  windows,  flowers  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers 
on  the  tables.  The  grey  carpet  with  pink  roses  was 
thick  ;  a  beautiful  Persian  rug  was  spread  before  the 
fireplace  ;  the  chairs  were  upholstered  with  grey  plush  ; 
there  were  photographs  in  silver  frames,  and  some 
beautiful  china  on  the  tables  and  mantelpiece ;  the 
furniture  was  charming  and  refined,  ol  Sheraton 
design. 

The  curtain  lifted,  and  a  small  middle-aged  lady 
in  a  rustling  dress  of  black  satin  advanced  quickly  up 
the  room.  She  was  diminutive,  pretty,  well  propor- 
tioned, with  a  dazzling  complexion,  grey-blue  eyes, 
and  brown  hair  which  was  quite  lustrous.  The  hand 
which  she  gave  to  Mary  was  white  like  flour  and 
wonderfully  soft ;  the  voice  was  eager,  impulsive, 
quivering  with  energy. 

"  Oh !  what  beautiful  eyes  you  have ! "  exclaimed 
Madame  Tilly,  and  dragged  her  visitor  to  a  chair  by 
the  fire.  After  some  preliminary  remarks  she  ex- 
plained in  a  quiet,  breathless-like  manner,  screwing 
up  her  eyes  and  using  innumerable  gestures,  the 
duties  required  of  an  assistant.  Mary  would  have 
to  receive  visitors,  to  recommend  such  articles  of 
aestheticism  as  complexion -creams,  face -powders, 
manicure  equipments,  electrical  apparatus  for  the 
skin  and  hair,  and  would  presently,  when  she  had 

143 


learned  the  business,  undertake  to  massage  the  faces 
of  clients,  to  electrify  their  hair,  and  attend  to  their 
hands.  Furthermore,  she  would  have  to  help  in  the 
correspondence,  which  was  very  heavy  and  extremely 
intimate,  writing  letters,  keeping  accounts,  and  making 
up  parcels  for  the  post ;  occasionally,  if  necessary,  she 
would  be  asked  to  help  Madame  Tilly  at  that  lady's 
private  house  in  the  preparation  of  creams,  unguents, 
and  face-washes.  If  she  was  quick  in  these  duties  she 
might  add  to  her  income  by  helping  Mr.  Dobb,  who 
had  a  profession  of  his  own  on  the  next  floor,  necessi- 
tating a  good  deal  of  writing  also  of  the  most  intimate 
nature.  Mr.  Dobb's  professional  name  was  Nico.  She 
had  probably  seen  his  photographs  and  advertisements 
in  the  fashion  papers.  He  was  a  genius,  Kolossal ! 
Madame  Tilly  raised  her  eyebrows,  lifted  her  shoulders, 
and  heaved  her  soul  to  the  ceiling.  Oh,  Kolossal ! 

Mary  was  bewildered  by  this  breathless  catalogue 
of  labours,  and  her  only  misgiving  as  to  the  situation 
lay  in  her  capacity  to  fill  it  with  satisfaction  to  her 
employers.  The  nature  of  the  work  did  not  strike 
her  one  way  or  the  other.  This  misgiving  she 
modestly  expressed  to  the  impulsive  and  emotional 
Madame  Tilly,  who  replied  with  a  rush  that  the  pro- 
fession did  indeed  require  talents  of  the  highest  order 
and  a  sensibility  of  the  very  keenest  kind,  but  that  no 
one  knew  what  they  could  do  till  they  tried.  Nico 
would  teach  her.  At  this  point  in  their  conversation 
there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell,  and  a  client  entered  the 
room,  warmly  and  most  graciously  welcomed  by 
Madame  Tilly,  who  left  Mary  after  patting  both  her 
cheeks  and  saying  that  she  was  iust  the  very  person 

144 


A  New   Phase   of  Existence 

for  the  profession.  While  she  was  talking  to  the 
client,  Mr.  Dobb  came  from  the  curtained  archway, 
hat  in  hand,  and  with  a  movement  of  his  head  indicated 
to  Mary  that  she  should  follow  him  from  the  room  ; 
his  walk  was  slow,  tragic,  funereal ;  his  mournful  eyes 
and  rigid  countenance  made  a  dramatic  contrast  with 
the  intense,  vivid,  and  mobile  countenance  of  his  little, 
beautiful  wife. 

On  the  next  landing,  to  which  he  had  mounted 
like  a  king  ascending  a  throne,  Mr.  Dobb  produced  a 
key,  opened  a  door  which  had  the  name  of  NICO 
painted  upon  it,  and  stood  on  one  side  for  Mary  to 
enter.  At  the  mention  by  Madame  Tilly  of  the  name 
Nico,  she  had  recognised  in  Mr.  Dobb  a  personage 
who  advertised  his  intense  face  in  the  fashion-papers, 
and  invited  people  to  consult  him  about  their  characters. 

She  found  herself  in  a  small  room,  with  green  walls, 
green  carpet,  and  green  curtains.  It  was  dimly  lit ; 
mysterious  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls.  A  skull 
occupied  the  usual  place  of  a  clock  upon  the  mantel- 
piece. A  globe  of  crystal  was  on  the  round  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  the  centre  of  which  was 
occupied  by  a  low  silver  bowl  filled  with  violets.  On 
a  side  table  against  the  wall  was  a  pile  of  unopened 
letters  addressed  to  Nico  in  feminine  handwriting. 

Mr.  Dobb  placed  his  wideawake  hat  on  a  chair, 
regarding  Mary  with  an  earnest  scrutiny.  He  then 
put  off  his  inverness  cape,  still  fixing  her  with  his 
tragic  eyes.  "  Madame,"  he  then  exclaimed  in  a 
deep  and  intense  voice,  "  what  would  you  do  with 
me  ? "  and  after  spreading  his  arms  wide,  he  grasped 
the  silk-faced  lapels  of  his  frock  coat  and  gazed  with  a 

H5  L 


The  Shadow 

quivering  excitement  into  her  eyes  which  suggested 
melodrama  or  a  lunatic  asylum. 

Mary,  being  quite  unable  to  answer  this  strange 
question,  and  not  having  the  quickness  of  the  London 
gamin,  which  would  have  supplied  a  most  suitable 
reply,  having  some  connexion  between  Mr.  Dobb's 
head  and  a  hypothetical  bag,  lowered  her  eyes  and 
waited. 

"  Do  you  feel  in  yourself,  in  your  soul  of  souls," 
asked  the  man  of  genius,  in  a  low,  solemn,  and 
vibrating  voice,  rolling  his  r*s  with  a  tremendous 
effect,  "  a  call  to  this  work  ?  Do  you  know,  have 
you  realised  what  our  work  is,  mine  and  my  wife's  ? " 
He  made  a  pause.  "  I  will  tell  you  !  We  ache,  we 
wince,  we  agonise.  To  what  end  ?  Beauty !  "  This 
word  he  uttered  with  a  shuddering  ecstasy.  "Both 
of  us,  madam,  my  wife  and  I,  we  agonise  for  Beauty 
— Beauty  which  is  Truth,  Truth  which  is  Beauty. 
Ah " 

He  passed  his  hand  swiftly  up  his  forehead  and 
tugged  at  his  hair.  "We,  who  were  Greeks  in  the 
days  of  Pericles,  I  who  had  Praxiteles  as  my  most 
intimate,  most  dear,  most  precious  friend — my  wife, 
who  soothed  the  sorrows  and  yearnings  of  Aspasia, 
and  peeled  for  her  willow  wands  from  the  banks 
of  the  Maeander,  we  are  here,  our  souls  are  here  in 
this  cold,  northern,  and  commercial  city,  helping  a 
debased  humanity  to  realise  beauty.  Yesterday 
Athens !  To-day,  Londinium !  Ah,  but  humanity 
is  saved  by  the  reincarnation  of  Greece. 

"  Madam,"  he  cried,  "  I  will  detail.  My  wife  takes 
the  face  of  humanity,  which  the  corruption  of  ages 

146 


A  New  Phase  of  Existence 

has  smirched  with  hideousness,  and  tries  by  the  gentle 
kneadings  of  her  art  to  make  it  soft,  childlike, 
beautiful.  I  take  the  soul  of  humanity,  buried  deep 
in  grossness  and  materialism,  and  struggle  by  mine 
art  to  make  it  vivid  as  the  lightning,  lofty  and 
intense  as  the  great  planet  Neptune.  Our  object  is 
single  and  the  same  :  Beauty  ! 

"  My  wife  works  upon  the  flesh  to  reach  the  soul,  to 
reach  the  soul  I  work  upon  the  will ;  we  are  both 
doctors  of  beauty.  What  is  beauty  ?  It  is  intensity 
of  life.  If  a  lamp-post  in  the  street  below  us  could 
feel  and  quiver  and  agonise  after  more  light,  it 
would  be  beautiful  for  me.  Beauty  of  form  is  much  ; 
beauty  of  feeling  is  all.  The  pig  at  the  trough ! 
Do  you  shudder  ?  Nay,  he  is  swept  by  an  ecstasy 
of  sensation.  I  would  know  the  quintessence  of 
that. 

"  All  things  that  feel,  and  desire,  and  are  conscious 
of  exquisite  yearnings  have  the  potentiality  of 
beauty.  It  is  only  your  clod,  satisfied  with  nothing 
and  desiring  nothing,  who  is  dead  in  my  eyes,  like  a 
rock,  like  a  stone,  like  a  board.  To  feel,  to  possess 
a  bosom  throbbing  after  sensation,  this  is  life,  this  is 
the  soul,  this  is  immortality. 

"  Enough  ;  if  you  come  to  us,  to  my  wife  and  to 
me,  you  must  feel  in  your  soul  an  irresistible  rusk 
towards  an  infinite  and  unqualified  sensation  of 
beauty.  You  must  be  sincere,  as  we  are  sincere.  To 
anoint  a  lady's  face  on  the  floor  below  with  some 
spice-breathing  unguent  as  though  you  were  a 
hireling  servant  blacking  a  grate,  or  shining  your 
mistress's  shoe,  will  not  remove  a  single  freckle ;  your 

147  L  2 


finger-tips  must  quiver  with  passionate  desire  for 
beauty. 

"In  the  same  way,  to  answer  letters  addressed 
to  me  by  tortured  spirits  throughout  the  kingdom  as 
though  you  were  a  clerk  making  a  monetary  entry  in 
a  columned  ledger  will  not  allay  one  pang  of  agony. 
Your  pen  must  scorch  the  paper  with  intensest 
sympathy  ;  the  words  will  be  mine,  but  as  you 
write  them,  so  will  their  effect  be  on  the  soul  of  the 
sufferer. 

"  All  this  is  a  mystery.  Madam,  people  consult 
me  about  their  destinies.  Troubled  souls !  They 
either  come  here  and  present  me  their  palms  to  read, 
or  send  me  an  imprint  of  their  thumbs  in  ink.  I  com- 
fort and  console  them,  or  I  warn  and  menace  ;  I  can 
be  helpful,  I  can  be  terrible  ;  I  know  the  past,  I  can 
forecast  the  future.  I  am  Nico. 

"  Enough.  To  terms.  We  offer  you,  my  wife 
and  I,  a  certain  sum  of  money  a  week.  Let  us  call 
it  one  sovereign  and  some  odd  silver — five  shillings, 
I  think  it  is  ;  enough  of  that.  If  you  succeed,  this 
honorarium  will  be  raised  ;  and  I  tell  you,  I  who  read 
character  as  a  man  reads  a  book — you  will  succeed. 
At  this  moment  I  know  your  thoughts,  I  read  them. 
You  think  you  will  not  succeed  ;  you  think  that  I  am 
eccentric,  too  intense,  mad !  You  are  even  afraid  to 
come  here  again.  Why  ?  Because  your  soul,  your 
beautiful  pure  soul,  is  locked,  locked  in  slumber.  I 
will  awake  it,  I  will  bathe  it  in  roses  and  the 
vintage  of  the  stars.  You  shall  succeed  ;  deep  in 
your  soul  are  the  choicest  qualities,  the  richest  gifts, 
the  most  intense  sensibilities — dormant!  I  will  call 

148 


A  New   Phase  of  Existence 

them  into  being.  I  will  turn  them  to  the  service  of 
humanity ;  you  shall  not  live  in  vain.  No,  you  shall 
help  to  make  the  world  beautiful ! 

"On  Monday  at  nine  you  will  come  here  and 
begin  ;  my  wife  will  teach  you,  I  will  teach  you." 
He  took  a  step  towards  her.  "  Look  in  my  eyes  ! " 
he  commanded.  He  bent  towards  her.  "  Say  to  me, 
with  conviction,  with  sincerity,  with  energy,  /  will 
succeed" 

Mary  complied  with  this  request  as  well  as  she 
could. 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  said  Nico,  with  a  professional  sigh, 
as  though  the  effort  of  mental  concentration  had  over- 
powered him.  "  Farewell." 


149 


CHAPTER   X. 
STRUGGLE  AND   INTERRUPTION 

IT  was  not  without  an  effort  that  Mary  Grafton 
brought  herself  to  accept  the  situation  offered  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobbs.  The  scent  of  the  pink  and 
grey  room  in  Bond  Street  clung  about  her  garments 
like  something  evil.  The  mouthing  palmist  filled  her 
pure  and  wholesome  mind  with  the  first  loathing  she 
had  ever  entertained  towards  a  human  being. 

But  she  knew  that  she  must  work  for  her  living,  and 
she  felt  that  it  would  wound  the  kind  heart  of  Mrs. 
Grindley  if  she  refused  this  offer,  which  the  old  lady's 
own  son  had  been  the  means  of  securing.  Besides, 
had  not  Mr.  Grindley  counselled  her  to  accept  it  ? 
These  considerations  determined  her  decision.  She 
became  an  assistant  to  Madame  Tilly  and  Nico. 

After  staying  in  Merrick  Square  for  some  three 
weeks,  going  early  every  morning  to  Bond  Street  and 
returning  late  in  the  evening  to  the  Grindleys'  house, 
Mary  became  the  occupier  of  rooms  of  her  own.  Mrs. 
Grindley  found  them  for  her. 

"  We  should  like  you,  my  dear,"  she  said  affection- 
ately, "  to  stay  always  with  us ;  but  our  married 
children  are  continually  coming  on  visits,  and  we  really 
have  not  the  room.  But  you  will  be  near  us  and  quite 
happy,  I  think,  in  the  rooms  we  have  found  for  you." 


Struggle  and   Interruption 

There  lived  in  Trinity  Street  a  single  lady  of 
straitened  circumstances  whose  nerves  had  been 
ridden  for  some  years  by  the  terror  of  burglars. 

Although  her  property  would  have  fetched  but  a 
few  shillings  even  in  the  hands  of  the  most  wheedling 
cheap-Jack  of  the  New  Cut,  she  had  patent  bolts  and 
locks  to  the  doors,  patent  fastenings  to  the  windows, 
and  her  hall  presented  the  appearance  of  a  cloak-room 
at  a  theatre,  so  loaded  was  its  row  of  pegs  with 
masculine  hats  and  ulsters  of  Samsonic  proportions. 
A  burglar  entering  the  house  of  Miss  Maffey  by  the 
front  door  would  have  fled  in  terror. 

On  the  personal  assurance  of  Mrs.  Grindley  that 
Mary  Grafton's  character  was  unimpeachable  and  that 
Christopher  was  a  boy  who  had  never  in  his  life  held 
any  communication  with  gangs  of  thieves  and  pick- 
pockets, nor  was  ever  likely  to  do  so,  Miss  Maffey 
consented  to  let  two  of  her  rooms  to  these  friends  of 
good  Mrs.  Grindley.  They  were  unfurnished  rooms, 
one  of  moderate  size,  and  the  other  little  more  than 
a  box-room  ;  they  were  high  up,  airy,  and  clean. 

Mr.  Grindley,  who  had  received  a  cheque  from 
Annabel  for  the  purpose,  assisted  Mary  in  purchasing 
the  necessary  furniture,  and  after  she  had  been  a 
month  with  the  Dobbses,  our  French-Canadian  moved 
with  Christopher  into  these  rooms  and  became  a  self- 
supporting  London  lodger. 

The  domestic  economy  of  this  couple  was  conducted 
on  the  severest  principles.  They  paid  five  shillings 
and  sixpence  a  week  for  their  two  rooms.  Light  and 
coal  cost  two  shillings  a  week,  a  gallon  of  oil  at  the 
cheaper  shops  costing  sevenpence,  a  hundredweight 


The  Shadow 

of  coal  one-and-fourpence,  wood  a  penny.  Mary  used 
an  oil-stove,  which  cost  her  two  shillings,  for  early 
morning  cooking ;  it  saved  lighting  the  fire.  She 
learned  to  cook  with  a  Dutch  oven  and  acquired  the 
Scotch  habit  of  roasting  in  a  saucepan. 

The  food  bill  came  to  ten  or  eleven  shillings  a 
week,  and  was  often  lightened  by  sundry  gifts  of 
cakes,  pastry,  and  groceries  from  old  Mrs.  Grindley. 
A  gift  of  a  pound  of  coffee,  for  instance,  made  a 
substantial  reduction  in  these  expenses.  Mary  bought 
many  of  her  provisions  in  the  street-markets  on  Satur- 
day night,  and  got  used  to  being  "  my  deared  "  by  fat, 
red-faced  hucksters  whose  change,  thrust  into  her 
hands  copper  by  copper,  was  terribly  greasy.  She 
could  buy  in  this  manner  mutton  at  fourpence  a 
pound,  and  mixed  vegetables,  which  lasted  for  several 
days,  at  twopence.  From  the  timorous  but  shrewd 
Miss  Maffey  she  learned  many  of  those  tricks  by  which 
the  poor  of  London  manage  to  supply  their  bodily 
needs  at  a  cost  which  would  astonish  an  alderman. 

"  You  can  buy  odd  shoes  at  different  stalls,"  said 
Miss  Maffey,  "  for  a  few  pence.  They  are  just  as  good 
as  a  pair  tied  together  by  the  heels  with  a  piece  of 
string.  And  then,  sausages.  If  you  go  to  a  shop 
and  purchase  half  a  pound,  you  will  usually  get  three. 
But  if  you  go  to  two  shops  and  buy  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  in  each,  you  will  get  four — two  at  each.  You 
gain  a  sausage.  And  be  sure  you  keep  your  eye  open 
in  the  market  for  what  is  advertised  as  a  speciality. 
I  have  known  cheese  a  halfpenny  a  pound  cheaper 
Monday  than  Wednesday.  That's  worth  saving. 
Some  of  the  shops,  where  they  sell  mutton  by  the 

152 


Struggle  and   Interruption 

slice  or  in  a  single  chop,  or  one  portion  of  steak,  will 
sometimes  throw  in,  by  way  of  advertisement,  a  pound 
of  sausages.  Indeed,  it  is  true.  A  whole  pound  of 
sausages !  It's  astonishing  how  they  do  it.  And  be 
sure  and  buy  dripping.  It's  much  nicer,  if  you  get  it 
at  a  clean  shop,  than  imitation  butter.  Taste  real  hot 
dripping  toast  and  see  if  you  don't  ask  for  more. 
It's  lovely!  Onions  are  a  great  stand-by.  A  penny 
packet  of  dessicated  soup  with  an  onion  stewed  in  it, 
and  bread-and-cheese  afterwards,  is  a  supper  good 
enough  for  any  one.  As  for  me,  I  generally  have  a 
Borough  bloater  for  my  supper,  being  a  little  fas- 
tidious in  my  stomach  at  bedtime.  All  smoking  hot, 
a  soft-roed  bloater  can  be  eaten  with  a  relish,  especi- 
ally if  it  has  been  chosen  and  carried  home  one's  self, 
encouraging  the  appetite  with  its  healthy  smell." 

With  these  hints  for  her  guidance,  and  her  own 
French  wit  to  aid  her,  Mary  soon  became  an  expert 
shopper  of  the  Borough.  An  average  week,  she  found, 
worked  out  in  the  following  manner : — 

£     s.     d. 

Rent        .        .  .  .056 

Light  and  coal.  .  .020 

Bread       .          .  .  .010 

Milk         .          .  .  .010 

Butter  or  dripping  .  .010 

Cheese     .         .  .  .004 

Tea  and  coffee  .  .  .020 

Groceries           .  .  .020 

Meat         .          .  .  .030 

Soap  and  soda  .  .  .006 

Washing  .          .  .  .010 

Fares        .         .  .  .020 

TotJil     .          .£114 
153 


The  Shadow 

Sometimes,  as  we  have  said,  this  list  was  lightened 
by  presents  from  Mrs.  Grindley,  and  if  these  gifts 
came  in  the  week  when  Mary  earned  thirty  instead 
of  twenty-five  shillings,  she  felt  herself  rich  indeed. 
She  was  soon  able  to  buy  some  pots  of  geraniums  for 
the  window-sills,  and  to  sow  mustard  and  cress  in 
soup-plates.  As  for  her  dresses,  Miss  Maffey  had 
told  her  that  she  bought  all  her  own  "  titivations," 
such  as  lace  collarettes  and  curl-pins,  out  of  the  money 
earned  by  saving  all  waste  paper,  journals,  and  other 
valuable  raw  material  of  a  great  city's  commerce, 
which  thoughtless  people  throw  away.  Mary  Graf  ton 
learned  to  become  a  seller  as  well  as  a  buyer  in  the 
great  and  wonderful  London  market. 

The  change  from  Glevering  was  complete ;  even 
from  Merrick  Square  it  was  great  enough.  But  mother 
and  son  were  not  unhappy  in  their  eyry.  To  Mary 
the  chief  bitterness  was  her  long  separation  from 
Christopher,  but  this  made  the  home  journey  an 
eager  excitement  and  gave  to  Saturday  afternoons 
and  to  Sundays  a  joy,  a  delight,  a  gratefulness  which 
she  had  never  guessed.  To  this  woman  adrift  on  the 
world,  life  had  one  purpose  and  one  meaning — her 
son.  She  loved  Christopher  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  woman's  nature,  and  her  soul,  which  was  pro- 
foundly conscious  of  God,  yearned  towards  the  child 
with  the  force  and  boundless  affection  of  eternity. 
For  his  sake  she  could  bear  the  pettiness  and  even 
the  degradation  of  life  in  the  pink  and  grey  room 
of  the  beauty  doctor.  She  was  strengthened  by  her 
love  for  Christopher  to  endure  the  strain  and  wretched- 
ness of  commerce  with  the  palmist.  It  was  not  the 

154 


Struggle  and  Interruption 

pitifulness  of  her  employment  which  weighed  upon 
her  mind,  but  the  dragging  hours  of  separation  from 
the  boy  necessitated  by  that  mean  labour.  With 
what  injunctions  and  blessings,  and  with  what  sacred 
prayers  in  her  heart,  did  she  take  leave  of  him  in  the 
morning !  With  what  anxiety  and  longing  did  she 
hurry  home  to  him  after  the  day's  work  ! 

They  were  very  happy  in  their  two  rooms.  She 
left  him  every  morning  with  a  certain  number  of  words 
to  learn  in  a  spelling-book,  a  copy  to  write,  a  Latin 
declension  to  master,  a  few  pages  of  history  to  read, 
and  perhaps  a  map  to  draw.  In  the  evening  when 
she  had  prepared  their  simple  meal,  Christopher  helping 
her  with  much  pride,  she  would  examine  him  on  what 
he  had  learned  during  the  day.  On  these  occasions 
he  sat  in  her  lap,  with  his  cheek  against  her  breast, 
his  eyes  closed  so  that  he  should  not  see  the  book 
held  in  her  hand. 

Miss  Maffey  took  him  with  her  every  morning  on 
her  shopping  expeditions,  and  Mary  gave  him  half 
an  hour's  walking  in  the  streets  before  he  went  to 
bed.  On  Saturday  afternoons  they  would  make  ex- 
cursions to  Peckham  Rye,  or  Kennington  Park,  or 
Clapham  Common ;  on  Sunday  they  accompanied 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grindley  to  St.  George's  Church,  dined 
with  the  old  people  in  Merrick  Square,  and  spent  the 
afternoon  in  St.  James's  or  Hyde  Park,  breathing 
an  air  which  reminded  them  of  Glevering. 

Christopher  felt  a  change  in  his  circumstances  and 
was  puzzled  to  know  why  his  mother  had  to  go  to 
work  every  day.  He  could  understand  the  exodus 
from  Glevering,  but  his  Promised  Land  had  not  in- 

155 


The  Shadow 


eluded  the  idea  of  his  mother  leaving  him  every  day 
for  some  mysterious  and  unknown  quarter  of  this  huge 
city  which  frightened  him.  "  When  I  get  older,"  he 
said,  "  I  shall  work  for  you,  and  we  will  never  leave 
each  other."  His  ambition  was  to  be  an  artist,  and 
to  have  his  mother  always  at  his  side  while  he  worked. 

Gradually  he  grew  accustomed  to  the  new  life. 
He  felt  it  was  fun  to  go  marketing  with  his  mother 
on  Saturday  night.  He  lost  his  terror  of  crowds, 
and  would  even  look  a  gang  of  roughs  in  the  face. 
He  enjoyed  the  shops.  He  studied  the  queer  faces 
and  droll  figures  of  the  multitude.  His  exercise-books 
had  for  marginalia  admirable  caricatures  of  Dickensian 
characters  who  swarm  in  these  parts  of  London. 
Humanity  became  as  great  a  pleasure  to  the  vivid 
nature  of  the  boy  as  the  beauty  and  peace-fulness  of 
Glevering. 

The  tenor  of  their  life  was  interrupted  one  day 
in  a  manner  which  threw  Mary  into  something  ap- 
proaching a  panic.  She  returned  late  one  evening 
from  Bond  Street  to  learn  from  Miss  Maffey  that  the 
School  Board  officer  had  called  and  inquired  about 
Christopher's  education.  The  thought  that  her  child 
should  be  taken  from  her,  should  be  forced  to  go  to 
a  school  of  the  State's  choosing,  and  should  thus  be 
thrown  into  the  intimacy  of  other  children  about  whose 
moral  principles  and  home-training  the  State  could 
give  her  no  assurance,  filled  her  anxious  heart  with 
the  liveliest  alarm. 

Without  waiting  to  prepare  supper,  she  took 
Christopher's  hand  and  hurried  across  the  road  to 
Merrick  Square.  Old  Mr.  Grindley  was  sitting  in  his 

156 


Struggle  and   Interruption 

grandfather  chair  smoking  a  churchwarden  pipe,  with 
the  Times  tumbled  at  his  feet.  Mrs.  Grindley,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hearth,  with  both  black  cats  in  her 
spread  lap,  was  reading  aloud  from  a  report  of  the 
London  Missionary  Society. 

At  Mary's  entrance,  Mrs.  Grindley  lowered  the 
report,  and  exclaimed,  "  Something  has  happened  ! " 
She  put  down  the  cats,  and  approached  the  young 
widow  with  anxiety  and  comfort  shining  in  her  kind 
eyes.  "  You  must  be  calm,  dear,"  she  said.  "  What- 
ever it  is,  you  must  compose  yourself.  Remember, 
nothing  can  hurt  or  harm  you." 

Old  Jack  puffed  very,  very  slowly  at  his  pipe, 
turning  his  usually  unturnable  head  from  the  fire,  to 
stare  at  Mary  with  lifted  eyebrows  and  lifted  eyelids, 
his  little  mouth  drawn  to  the  size  of  a  waistcoat 
button.  He  said  nothing. 

Christopher,  standing  between  the  two  women, 
regarded  the  Colossus  and  wondered  why  he  did  not 
rise,  did  not  greet  his  mother,  did  not  speak.  But  Old 
Jack  was  not  rude,  nor  wanting  in  sympathy.  He 
was  preparing  that  slow  but  steady  mind  of  his  for 
the  reception  of  a  new  thought,  bracing  and  steadying 
his  brain  to  receive  the  impact  of  some  fresh  idea. 
How  could  he  be  garrulous  or  attentive  to  small 
politeness,  when  he  hadn't  the  faintest  notion  of  what 
Mary,  whose  face  was  as  white  as  paper,  intended 
to  say  ? 

The  story  was  soon  told.  Mrs.  Grindley  lifted  her 
hands  and  turned  up  her  eyes.  "  Dreadful !  dread- 
ful!" she  kept  saying.  Old  Jack,  at  its  conclusion, 
turned  his  face  back  to  the  fire,  relaxed  the  tension 

157 


The  Shadow 

of  eyebrows  and  eyelids,  took  a  steadier  pull  at  his 
pipe,  and  stretched  out  his  legs  again,  crossing  his 
slippered  feet. 

"  What  can  she  do,  Jack  dear  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Grindley,  and  knowing  that  her  husband  would  need 
time  to  answer,  she  turned  to  Mary  and  comforted 
her  by  assuring  the  poor  mother  that  it  would  all 
come  right  if  only  she  could  be  calm  and  composed. 

Christopher,  feeling  that  he  was  the  guilty  cause  of 
this  perturbation,  went  down  on  one  knee  and  began 
to  renew  acquaintance  with  the  two  cats. 

After  a  long  pause  Mr.  Grindley  delivered  judgment. 
He  said  that  the  rate-supported  schools,  like  every 
educational  establishment  in  the  country,  entertained 
a  false  notion  of  education.  "  Instead  of  teaching 
children  to  earn  a  living,  they  teach  them  to  pass 
examinations,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  all  schools  are  the 
same.  The  whole  system  throughout  the  world  is 
wrong.  It  won't  last.  Education  is  a  fad."  He 
smoked  for  some  time  in  silence,  a  pause  utilised  by 
Mrs.  Grindley  to  slip  her  arm  through  Mary's  and  to 
whisper  that  it  would  all  come  right  and  that  she 
mustn't  worry.  Then  Old  Jack  continued  :  "  I  should 
let  him  go.  He's  old  enough  to  take  no  harm.  It's 
only  a  form,  and  it  costs  nothing.  He  may  as  well 
be  there  as  anywhere  else." 

At  first  Mary  could  not  bring  herself  to  accept 
submission  to  the  law.  She  sought  by  every  means 
in  her  power  to  alter  Mr.  Grindley's  judgment.  But 
the  old  man  remained  inflexible,  and  he  had  an  ally 
in  Mrs.  Grindley,  who  echoed  her  husband's  suggestion 
that  after  all  Christopher  might  as  well  be  in  a  Board- 

158 


Struggle  and   Interruption 

school  as  anywhere  else.  Finally  Mary's  heart  was 
accustomed  to  the  thought.  She  gathered  from  the 
Grindleys  a  hopeful  idea  of  the  national  schools.  She 
left  Merrick  Square,  comforting  Christopher  and  telling 
him  that  he  would  be  happier  at  school  during  her 
absence  than  waiting  for  her  alone  in  the  lodgings. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  one  of  the  possible  heirs 
to  an  ancient  baronetcy,  a  boy,  too,  with  the  proud 
Graftonian  blood  in  his  veins,  went  to  a  Borough 
Board-school,  and  sat  at  his  book  in  company  with 
the  ragged,  starving,  and  sickly  children  of  the 
wretchedest  dog-holes  and  kennels  in  Christendom. 

Christopher,  curious  to  relate,  never  spoke  of  these 
children  to  his  mother.  He  soon  conquered  his  fear 
of  school,  and  had  no  tales  for  his  mother's  ear  but 
those  of  his  success  in  the  class  or  of  the  kindness 
of  his  instructors.  He  told  her,  if  she  asked  about 
his  schoolfellows,  of  those  who  came  as  well  dressed 
and  as  well  cared  for  as  himself,  of  whom,  God  be 
thanked,  there  are  great  numbers  in  every  national 
school  throughout  the  slums  of  London.  Mary  was 
happy  and  contented,  watching  Christopher  for  any 
change  in  his  character,  and  never  detecting  the 
smallest  cloud  in  the  pure  heaven  of  her  child's 
innocence. 

She  had  become  quite  restful  in  this  fresh  habit 
of  her  London  life,  when  a  new  disturbance  arose,  of 
a  different  character. 

Among  the  clients  of  Madame  Tilly,  who  were  chiefly 
ladies  from  the  richer  suburbs — each  of  whom  persuaded 
herself  that  she  was  lucky  to  share  with  the  entire 
English  aristocracy  the  attentions  of  the  famous  and 

159 


The  Shadow 

exclusive  Beauty  Doctor — there  were  at  least  three 
or  four  fashionable  women,  ladies  of  quality,  who  were 
far  too  superior  to  frequent  the  pink  and  grey  room 
in  Bond  Street.  To  these  high  and  mighty  dames 
Madame  Tilly  would  go  on  certain  days,  bag  in  hand, 
like  a  clockmaker  come  to  wind  up  clocks,  and  in 
their  own  rooms  would  anoint  and  massage  the  much- 
tried  complexions,  electrify  the  hair,  and  attend  to  the 
finger-nails,  even  to  the  toes. 

It  chanced  on  one  occasion  that  appointments  with 
two  of  these  great  personages  clashed,  and  Mary  was 
despatched  with  a  litttle  bag  to  a  house  in  Chelsea 
while  Madame  hurried  to  a  house  in  Mayfair. 

Mary  had  now  become  more  or  less  used  to  the 
sickening  work  of  beauty  doctor.  She  had  seen  by 
this  time  too  much  of  overfed,  overdressed,  and  quite 
godless  humanity  to  be  surprised  at  the  vanity,  the 
paltriness,  the  shameless  egotism  of  these  slaves  of 
Mammon.  She  had  even  got  beyond  hating  herself 
for  putting  hands  which  surely  God  had  created  for 
nobler  uses  to  the  mean  work  of  correcting  the  ravages 
of  time  and  intemperance.  Love  for  Christopher,  the 
purest  love  that  ever  lived  in  woman's  heart,  an  utterly 
sweet  and  self-sacrificing  passion,  the  profundity  of 
which  he  was  one  day  to  realise  with  inexpressible 
poignancy,  preserved  her  self-respect  in  this  odious 
trade,  and  enabled  her  to  discharge  its  duties  without 
bitterness  or  impatience. 

"  What  does  it  matter,"  she  said  to  herself  on  many 
occasions,  "  whether  our  work  is  a  great  thing  or  a 
mean  thing,  so  long  as  we  make  it  a  means  for  the 
purification  of  our  souls  and  the  perfection  of  our 

1 60 


Struggle  and   Interruption 

virtues  ?  It  is  not  the  labour  that  counts,  but  the 
effect  of  the  labour  upon  our  characters.  Everything 
on  earth,  in  the  sight  of  God,  must  be  small — the 
grandest  aspirations  of  the  human  mind  must  have 
something  childlike  in  the  eyes  of  the  great  Father. 
It  is  only  for  our  hearts  He  cares  ;  not  what  we  do, 
but  what  we  are ;  not  what  we  gain,  but  what  we  wish 
to  be." 

To-day,  with  a  new  duty  thrust  upon  her,  this 
exquisite  faith  wavered,  and  her  courage  was  tried. 
At  the  thought  of  going  to  some  unknown  woman 
in  her  own  house,  and  there,  admitted  like  a  menial, 
to  perform  the  hateful  operations  of  her  sorry  trade, 
she  felt  her  first  repugnance,  her  earliest  disgust. 
In  the  midst  of  her  rising  rebellion,  however,  she 
experienced  a  sudden  and  a  consolatory  peace,  a 
peace  breathing  from  words  of  Fenelon,  long  familiar 
to  her  brain.  "  The  simple  and  commonplace  morti- 
fications which  consist  in  constant  resignation  to  the 
gentle  discipline  of  God  in  the  affairs  of  every  day," 
says  that  noble  soul,  "  are  more  to  be  preferred  than 
all  those  artificial  austerities  which  flatter  the  soul  and 
poison  renunciation  with  self-righteousness." 

From  Fenelon  she  had  learned  the  truest  and 
simplest  Christianity — a  complete  resignation  to  the 
will  of  God,  and  a  spiritual  interpretation  of  even 
the  smallest  and  most  trivial  events  which  touched 
her  soul.  For  Mary  Grafton  life  was  a  discipline,  its 
purpose  was  character,  its  goal  lay  far  beyond  the 
bounds  of  time  and  place.  Nothing  happened  to 
her  which  she  did  not  use,  in  her  own  quite  simple 
and  child-like  fashion,  to  correct  faults  of  character, 

161  M 


The  Shadow 

to  chasten  self-will,  to  discipline  disposition,  to  purify 
her  soul. 

She  went  on  this  new  mission  and  performed  her 
duties  as  well  as  she  could.  The  lady  was  young, 
beautiful,  hot-blooded  ;  her  temper  was  none  of  the 
sweetest ;  she  resented  a  deputy  in  place  of  Madame 
Tilly  herself ;  she  was  vexed,  impatient,  querulous ; 
her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  large  eyes  luminous 
and  excited,  her  petulant  lips  dry  and  parched.  She 
had  been  up  till  three  in  the  morning,  she  told 
Mary,  and  she  had  lost  at  baccarat  more  money  than 
she  cared  to  think  about.  It  was  almost  hopeless, 
she  supposed,  that  her  complexion  could  look  well  with 
her  blood  racing  at  such  a  sickening  pace.  "  I  was 
a  fool,"  she  said,  w  to  drink  so  much  whisky-and- 
syphon  ;  but  one  gets  excited  and  dry  and  frightened 
— at  the  time  one  forgets  everything  else." 

"Is  such  a  life  worthwhile?"  asked  Mary. 

"  It  is  the  only  one  I  have  got,"  answered  the  lady. 

At  the  end  of  the  operation,  her  trembling  hot 
fingers  fumbled  among  the  strewed  dressing-table  and 
presently  offered  rather  impatiently  a  florin  to  the 
humble  masseuse.  Mary  was  first  astonished,  then 
tempted  to  accept  the  money,  then  pained. 

"  No,  mademoiselle,"  she  said.  "  If  you  owe  so 
much  money " 

"  Nonsense,  what  do  you  mean  ?  You  can  buy 
yourself  an  ornament  of  some  kind." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  I  could  not  take  it,  even  to 
do  good  with  it" 

The  lady  tossed  the  money  back  to  the  table. 
"Very  well,"  she  said,  "just  as  you  please.  The 

162 


Struggle  and  Interruption 

servants  will  give  you  a  glass  of  wine  and  some  cake 
if  you  ask  them.  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  service." 

Just  as  Mary  was  reaching  the  first  floor,  the  door 
of  the  drawing-room  opened  and  an  elderly  lady 
came  out  accompanied  by  Lady  Emily  Grafton. 

Mary  drew  up,  lowered  her  head,  and  waited  for 
them  to  precede  her  down  the  next  flight  of  stairs. 
Both  women  regarded  her,  and  passed  slowly  forward. 
As  Lady  Emily  reached  the  stairhead,  she  turned 
and  looked  once  more  at  the  beautiful  but  humble 
young  creature  in  a  black  dress,  who  carried  a  pro- 
fessional bag,  and  was  descending  from  the  bedroom 
floors  of  this  house,  a  stranger  to  its  owner.  Mary 
did  not  raise  her  eyes,  but  she  knew  that  Lady  Emily 
had  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

A  few  days  after  this  occurrence  she  received  an 
angry  letter  from  Glevering  addressed  to  her  at 
Madame  Tilly's  establishment  Isabel  Grafton 
accused  her  of  wantonly  and  shamelessly  degrading 
the  family  honour.  She  said  that  Mary  had  refused 
out  of  pride  the  allowance  which  Sir  Matthew 
generously  offered  to  provide  her  with,  and  yet  had 
suffered  herself  to  earn  money  by  one  of  the  most 
reprehensible,  mischievous,  and  contemptible  trades 
to  which  an  honest  woman  could  lay  her  hands.  She 
concluded  by  challenging  Mary  to  say  whether  she 
better  did  her  duty  to  Christopher  by  following  an 
abominable  and  disgusting  and  unnatural  calling, 
which  would  surely  be  flung  one  day  in  the  face  of 
her  son,  particularly  if  he  ever  succeeded  to  the  title, 
than  by  accepting  an  allowance  from  the  head  of 
Christopher's  family,  which  would  at  least  enable  her 

163  M  2 


The  Shadow 

to  live  in  self-respect  and  to  educate  Christopher  as 
the  son  of  a  gentleman  ought  to  be  educated. 

On  the  day  when  this  letter  arrived  Mary's  labour 
was  shared  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobbs.  She  made  up 
several  packages  for  Madame  Tilly,  saw  to  three  or 
four  purple- faced  ladies  from  the  outer  suburbs,  and 
then,  on  the  upper  floor,  wrote  to  poor  unhappy  women 
all  over  the  country,  who,  entangled  by  the  skilful 
advertisements  of  Mr.  Dobbs,  had  written  to  consult 
the  wizard  Nico,  pouring  out  in  letters  marked  "  Private 
and  confidential  "  the  little  petty  tragedies  of  their  little 
petty  lives. 

The  vigorous  phrases  in  Isabel  Grafton's  letter  rang 
through  the  mind  ©f  Mary  as  she  wrote  at  the  dictation 
of  Mr.  Dobbs  epistles  which  shocked  and  disgusted 
her. 

Isabel's  protest  had  produced  a  new  problem  in 
Mary's  mind.  She  no  longer  thought  of  her  work  as 
a  submission  to  Providence ;  she  saw  it  for  the  first 
time  very  clearly  as  something  which  was  definitely 
wrong  and  non-good. 

She  shuddered  at  the  remembrance  that  she  had 
considered  this  odious  work  as  a  discipline  sent  to  her 
by  God.  It  was  something  evil,  something  unrighteous ; 
her  heart  was  tortured. 

Conscience,  which  had  been  silenced  by  motherhood, 
became  suddenly  clear-voiced  and  unequivocal.  She 
was  supporting  Christopher  by  the  wages  of  sin.  Her 
labour  encouraged  vanity  and  opposed  the  punishments 
of  outraged  nature ;  she  confirmed  the  vain  and  the 
frivolous  in  their  worldliness  ;  she  exerted  herself  to 
rescue  from  a  just  retribution  those  who  pursued 

164 


Struggle  and   Interruption 

animalism.  It  was  not  now  of  herself  that  she 
thought,  but  of  those  to  whom  she  ministered  ;  she 
saw  them  as  evil,  culpable,  selfish,  and  unspiritual 
— the  creatures  of  worldliness,  self-indulgence,  and 
materialism.  How  could  she  think,  how  could  she 
believe,  that  Providence  would  have  her  work  for 
these  worst  enemies  of  purity  and  goodness  ? 

But  there  was  Christopher,  his  bread  must  be 
earned,  and  to  what  else  could  she  turn  her  hand  ? 
Where  could  she  find  virtuous  employment  by  which 
she  could  earn  the  pittance  necessary  for  his  support  ? 

Then  came  the  temptation  of  the  Grafton  allowance. 
There  was  no  need  for  her  to  work  at  all.  Sir  Matthew 
would  provide  her  with  'money  sufficient  for  herself  and 
for  Christopher.  Had  she  any  right  to  refuse  this 
assistance  ?  Was  she  not  letting  her  selfish  mother- 
hood cloud  her  sense  of  justice  ? — the  money  might 
certainly  be  regarded  as  Christopher's  right.  In  any 
case,  this  offer  of  an  allowance  rendered  it  quite  in- 
defensible that  she  should  any  longer  earn  money  by 
a  calling  which  she  had  seen  to  be  definitely  immoral. 
She  was  very  troubled  and  disturbed. 

That  night  she  wrote  to  Isabel  Grafton  ;  she  neither 
accepted  nor  refused  the  offer  of  an  allowance ;  she 
acknowledged  that  her  present  employment  was  dis- 
tasteful, but  said  that  she  would  prefer  to  maintain 
Christopher  and  herself  by  her  own  labour  rather  than 
live  on  the  bounty  of  relations.  Until  she  could  dis- 
cover whether  it  was  possible  to  obtain  more  congenial 
work,  she  would  like  to  leave  the  kind  offer  of  Sir 
Matthew  in  abeyance. 

From  that  moment  she  searched  the  advertisement 
165 


The  Shadow 

columns  of  newspapers  and  wrote  innumerable  letters 
of  application.  In  some  of  the  interviews  which  fol- 
lowed from  her  letters,  Mary  learned,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  something  of  the  boundless  horror  of  a 
city's  iniquity. 

She  was  very  wretched  and  very  distressed,  when 
one  evening,  returning  with  Christopher  from  her 
marketing,  a  boy  in  rags  and  horribly  dirty  suddenly 
confronted  them  with  a  grinning  face  and  hailed 
Christopher  by  name. 

When  they  moved  on  again,  Mary  said,  "  Are  there 
many  boys  like  that  at  your  school  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Christopher,  "  Charlie  Reed  is  the  worst 
of  the  lot ;  he  is  always  getting  into  trouble ;  isn't  he 
dreadfully  dirty,  mother  ? " 

This  meeting  drove  Mary  several  steps  nearer  to 
the  acceptance  of  Sir  Matthew's  offer.  She  said  she 
would  give  herself  another  week  ;  she  answered  adver- 
tisements every  night,  counting  the  cost  of  the  stamps 
with  anxiety.  At  the  end  of  the  week  she  came  home 
to  write  to  Isabel  Grafton  a  letter  of  surrender. 

She  found  Christopher  unwell.  He  had  been  sent 
home  from  school  early  in  the  afternoon  with  a  blind- 
ing headache ;  his  cheeks  were  flushed,  his  hands 
burning,  there  was  a  lethargic  torpor  in  the  luminous 
eyes  which  frightened  her  and  filled  her  with  dread. 

She  consulted  Miss  Maffey,  and  on  that  lady's 
advice  went  for  a  doctor. 

"  Put  him  to  bed,"  was  the  doctor's  first  command. 
After  his  examination  he  said  to  Mary,  "  Can  you 
nurse  him,  or  do  you  go  to  work  ?  He  has  got  scarlet 
fever,  badly." 

166 


CHAPTER    XI. 
THE    NEW   LIFE 

MARY  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dobbs   explaining  that  she 
could  not  come  to  her  work  on  account  of  Chris- 
topher's illness  ;   she  expected  that  this   letter 
would  be  acknowledged  by  dismissal,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  write  to  Glevering  asking  for  help  ;  but  instead 
of  dismissal  the  Dobbses  arrived  that  night  in  Trinity 
Street — much  to  the  perturbation  of  Miss  Maffey,  who 
at  once  regarded  Nico  in  the  light  of  an  assassin  and 
a  dynamitard — bringing  with  them  gifts  of  fruit  and 
scent  for  the  little  invalid. 

They  were  both  so  kind,  so  thoughtful  and  sympa- 
thetic, that  Mary's  heart  for  the  first  time  warmed  to 
them.  Madame  Tilly  told  her  that  she  was  not  to 
give  business  a  thought  till  Christopher  was  perfectly 
well  again,  and  that  in  the  meantime  her  salary 
would  be  paid  as  usual.  Nico,  who  had  made  himself 
very  pleasant  to  Christopher,  came  from  an  examina- 
tion of  the  boy's  palms  and  whispered  to  Mary,  "  He 
will  recover ;  your  son  will  live — to  be  a  famous 
man." 

How  could  Mary  say  to  these  kind  people,  "  Your 
trade  is  sinful  and  bad ;  I  cannot  serve  you  any 
longer  "  ?  Their  considerateness  and  sweetness  caused 
her  to  feel  ashamed  of  the  efforts  she  had  made,  with- 

167 


The  Shadow 

out  their  knowledge,  to  free  herself  from  their  toils. 
She  discovered  goodness  in  them ;  their  kindness 
opened  her  eyes  to  their  humanity.  But  so  over- 
whelming was  her  anxiety  for  Christopher  that  this 
and  every  other  consideration  could  find  no  permanent 
lodging  in  her  mind. 

As  the  fever  developed  itself,  she  was  filled  with 
terror  that  he  would  die.  The  thought  was  terrible 
to  her ;  under  its  agonising  weight  faith  broke  down, 
and  she  was  a  mother  alone  with  the  frightful  forces 
of  Nature. 

One  night — which  she  often  recalled  in  after  years 
— as  the  poor  wasted  child  lay  panting  and  white  in 
his  bed,  tossing  from  side  to  side,  the  lips  mingling 
with  the  incoherencies  of  delirium  the  fretful  moans 
of  physical  anguish,  the  thought  suddenly  burned  in 
her  brain,  "  What  if  it  is  God's  mercy  that  he  should 
die?" 

She  now  knew  something  of  sin  and  evil,  her  fear  of 
the  world  was  no  longer  a  fear  of  ignorance.  What 
if  it  were  God's  mercy  that  the  child  should  be 
delivered  from  the  risk  of  contamination  ?  Could  she 
let  him  go  ?  He  was  innocent,  his  soul  was  unspotted  ; 
no  evil  had  sullied  his  purity,  no  iniquity  had  blackened 
his  heart ;  could  this  loveliness  survive  if  he  lived  to 
face  the  world  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  that  God 
should  take  him  as  he  was,  stainless  and  undefiled  ? 
Would  it  not  be  for  his  happiness  that  he  should 
depart  out  of  this  cruel  world  and  breathe  the  spiritual 
air  of  blissful  paradise  ? 

No,  no!  a  thousand  times  no!  Her  motherhood 
rushed  up  to  heaven  with  a  prayer.  Whatever  the 

1 68 


THE    DOBESES    CAME    BRINGING    THEIR   GRAPES    FOR 
CHRISTOPHER. 


The  New  Life 

consequences,  let  him  live.  He  was  her  all.  Let  him 
live.  She  would  be  by  him  always ;  her  love  would 
protect  him  ;  she  would  answer  to  God  for  his  soul. 
Let  him  live. 

The  child  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  His  moaning 
ceased,  his  pantings  and  murmurings  died  away ;  he 
sank  into  an  easeful  sleep.  Mary  bent  over  him  and 
kissed  his  brow,  with  a  thanksgiving  in  her  heart. 

On  the  following  day  the  doctor  said  to  her,  "  The 
crisis  is  passed.  We  shall  pull  him  through." 

Mrs.  Grindley,  who  had  been  a  daily  visitor  all 
through  this  desperate  time,  came  one  day  to  see 
Mary  with  a  newspaper  in  her  hand.  The  crisis  was 
well  over ;  Christopher  was  out  of  danger.  The  old 
lady  did  not  think  that  Mary  would  be  agitated  by 
the  news  she  had  brought.  The  death  was  announced 
in  the  paper  of  the  infant  son  of  Sir  Matthew  Grafton's 
third  brother.  Mary  had  never  heard  of  this  child's 
birth. 

"  It  looks  to  me,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  as  if  those 
grand  people  at  Glevering  altered  their  manner  to  you 
when  this  child  was  born.  Now  that  the  poor  little 
thing  is  dead,  and  Christopher  is  once  more  in  the 
line  of  succession,  they  will  probably  want  you  to 
return." 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  Dobbses  came  to  Trinity 
Street,  bringing  with  their  grapes  for  Christopher  a 
letter  for  Mary.  It  was  from  Isabel,  who  wrote  to 
know  her  sister-in-law's  decision  concerning  Sir 
Matthew's  offer,  which  could  not,  she  said,  be  indefi- 
nitely extended.  In  spite  of  this  somewhat  peremp- 
tory demand,  the  letter  was  far  more  kindly  in  tone 

169 


The  Shadow 

than  the  first.  "Matthew  and  I  both  recognise," 
she  wrote,  "  that  your  motives  in  wishing  to  maintain 
yourself  are  praiseworthy  and  honourable  ;  what  we 
wish  you  to  see  is  that  your  self-respect  may  do  con- 
siderable and  even  irreparable  injury  to  Christopher. 
At  the  most  impressionable  time  of  his  life  you  must 
be  exposing  him  to  a  contamination  highly  undesir- 
able and  most  dangerous."  The  letter  concluded  by 
inviting  Mary  to  come  on  a  visit  to  Glevering. 

Her  situation  was  one  of  the  greatest  difficulty. 

She  sat  sleepless  that  night  for  many  hours  beside 
Christopher's  bed,  striving  to  see  light  in  the  darkness, 
a  straight  path  in  the  confusion  of  her  ways.  But 
how  great  was  her  problem !  If  she  surrendered  to 
Glevering,  Christopher  would  certainly  be  taken  out 
of  her  hands.  His  life  would  pass  out  of  her  keeping. 
His  soul,  which  God  had  given  back  to  her  from  death, 
would  be  shaped,  not  for  heaven,  but  for  the  world. 
She  to  whom  the  mercy  had  been  shown,  she  who 
had  promised  to  answer  for  his  soul,  would  have  to 
sit  silent  watching  him  grow  into  the  Graftonian 
manner,  as  an  end  of  existence. 

She  knew  that  Sir  Matthew's  offer  was  conditional, 
and  would  be  a  hundred  times  more  severe  in  its 
conditions  now,  if  Christopher  was  once  more  the 
possible  heir  of  Glevering. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  her  distasteful  employ- 
ment in  Bond  Street,  and  above  all  things,  the  risk  to 
Christopher  of  contagion  in  the  terrible  Board  school. 
She  was  brought  to  see  that  the  State  interferes  like 
an  autocrat  between  parent  and  child,  if  they  are  poor. 
The  State  insisted  that  Christopher  should  go  to 

170 


The   New  Life 

school.  However  carefully  his  mother  might  rear  and 
guard  him,  he  would  be  exposed  to  disease  from  chil- 
dren whose  parents  took  no  such  care  of  them.  The 
State  does  not  make  itself  answerable  for  the  health 
of  the  children  it  compels  parents  to  surrender ;  it 
does  not  separate  the  healthy  from  the  unhealthy  ;  its 
schools  are  the  breeding-grounds  of  disease,  and  good 
parents  must  suffer  from  the  neglect  of  bad  parents. 

This  tyranny  of  the  State  frightened  the  poor 
mother  bereft  of  her  freedom.  She  might  guard 
Christopher  from  colds  and  coughs,  but  the  Board 
school  made  all  her  care  useless.  She  might  keep 
him  clean,  but  the  Board  school  sent  him  home  with 
horrible  parasites.  She  might  instil  into  his  soul  the 
principles  of  morality  and  the  spirit  of  religion,  but 
how  could  he  preserve  his  innocence  among  the 
wretched  children  of  immoral  parents  ? 

One  evening  Mr.  Dobbs  came  alone  to  Trinity 
Street.  Madame  Tilly,  he  explained,  was  busy  at 
home  manufacturing  ointments.  He  was  very  kind 
to  Christopher,  for  whom  he  had  brought  a  drawing- 
book  and  a  bundle  of  pencils,  and  he  spoke  to  Mary 
with  unusual  gentleness.  Presently  he  turned  to  her 
and  said,  "  We  do  not  wish  to  hurry  you,  or  to  add  to 
your  anxiety,  but  we  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  can 
come  back  to  us  shortly.  We  are  overworked  just 
now.  A  new  advertisement  has  awakened  the  souls 
of  hundreds,  thousands,  to  our  beneficent  work.  You 
will  be  of  great  assistance  to  us." 

Mary  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Mr.  Dobbs 
watched  her  for  some  moments,  and  then  said  that 
perhaps  Mrs.  Grindley  would  sit  with  Christopher 

171 


The  Shadow 

while  she  was  absent.  Then  Mary  spoke.  She  said 
that  she  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  she  was  quite 
fit  for  the  work.  Her  mind,  she  was  afraid,  was  not  in 
the  business.  She  felt  that  somebody  else  might  be  of 
greater  use  to  Madame  Tilly. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ? "  asked  Nico.  His  eyes 
burned.  "  What  work  in  all  the  world  could  you  find 
so  beautiful  and  full  of  ministration  ?  Would  you  be 
happier  casting  accounts  in  a  ledger,  serving  people 
over  a  counter  with  ribbons  and  trinkets,  wasting  your 
genius  in  the  mere  materialism  of  commerce  ?  We 
are  satisfied  with  you  ;  why  are  you  dissatisfied  with 
us  ? " 

Pressed  by  the  intense  magician,  Mary  said  at  last 
that  she  had  conscientious  scruples,  and  as  well  as  she 
could,  with  those  terrible  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  and 
feeling  in  her  heart  unimagined  reproaches  at  the 
memory  of  all  the  kindness  she  had  received  from 
these  people,  she  stated  what  those  scruples  were. 

Nico  heard  her  out.  "  You  surprise  me  even  more 
than  you  pain  me,"  he  said  gently.  "You  have  been 
with  us  all  these  months  and  you  have  not  caught  the 
spirit  of  our  work.  How  is  that  ?  Do  we  seem  to 
you  rogues  and  impostors  ?  Are  we  base-minded  and 
commercial  ?  Is  our  work  something  evil  and  wrong  ? 
Surely  you  have  been  blind.  I  say  that  in  all  the 
world  there  is  no  work  more  noble  than  Madame 
Tilly's  and  my  own.  What  does  she  essay  to  do  ? 
To  prevent  ugliness,  to  increase  beauty.  Ugliness  is 
the  enemy  of  the  spirit.  It  is  beauty  which  quickens 
the  soul.  And  I — I  use  abnormal  powers  to  warn 
humanity  against  suffering,  pain,  and  sin.  Have  you 

172 


The  New  Life 

ever  heard  me  counsel  any  to  works  of  evil  ?  Mrs. 
Grafton,  you  have  been  made  anxious  by  the  sickness 
of  your  son.  You  have  lost  your  clear  vision,  your 
true  judgment.  But  if  you  would  rather  not  come 
back  to  us,  if  it  is  against  your  conscience  to  return, 
we  shall  not  stand  in  your  way  ;  we  will  release  you." 
It  seemed  to  Mary  that  she  had  cruelly  hurt  this 
man  who  had  been  so  kind  to  Christopher,  so  in- 
dulgent to  herself.  She  was  full  of  regret.  "  Let  me 
come  back  and  help  you  till  you  can  find  someone 
else,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  think  of  you  and  Madame 
Tilly  except  with  gratitude  and  respect.  It  is  only 
that  the  work  does  not  appeal  to  me  as  it  appeals  to 
you." 

So  Mary  returned  to  Bond  Street  and  worked  once 
more  with  the  beauty  doctor  and  the  palmist,  while 
Mrs.  Grindley  and  Miss  Maffey  took  care  of  Chris- 
topher in  her  absence. 

She  was  now  more  and  more  determined  to  with- 
stand pressure  from  Glevering.  The  possession  of 
Christopher  was  too  precious  for  surrender.  Her 
energies  returned  with  her  work.  She  felt  again  the 
satisfaction  of  her  little  establishment. 

But  what  could  she  do  to  find  suitable  employ- 
ment ? 

Mrs.  Grindley  said  to  her  one  evening :  "  My  dear, 
we  have  been  talking  together,  my  dear  husband  and 
I,  about  Christopher's  education.  We  do  not  think  it 
would  be  altogether  wise  to  send  him  back  to  school. 
Now,  we  know  of  a  very  clever  man  who  would  do 
famously  for  his  tutor,  and  the  fees  would  not  be 
very  serious,  seven  or  ten  shillings  a  week.  Why 

173 


The  Shadow 

should  you  not  write  to  your  relations  at  Glevering 
and  ask  them  to  pay  for  this  education  ? " 

"  They  would  insist  on  taking  him  away  from  me." 

Mrs.  Grindley  wondered  whether  it  might  not  be 
better,  after  all,  if  Mary  and  Christopher  returned  to 
Glevering.  But  Mary  exclaimed  that  it  would  be 
servitude.  She  had  escaped  once,  she  had  discovered 
a  means  of  earning  daily  bread  ;  she  would  never  go 
back  to  dependence  and  humiliation. 

"And  yet,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Grindley,  watching 
her  shrewdly,  "  you  do  not  appear  to  be  very  happy 
with  those  eccentrics  in  Bond  Street." 

"  I  should  prefer  some  other  kind  of  work,"  Mary 
admitted. 

"  Why  are  you  not  happy  with  them  ? " 

Mary  told  her  scruples. 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  said  the  old  lady,  quite  horrified, 
"  that  they  were  such  wicked  people." 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  wicked.  It  is  the  work  which 
is  bad,  though  in  their  eyes  it  is  altogether  good." 

"They  must  be  thoroughly  wicked  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Grindley  emphatically. 

She  went  away.  On  the  following  Sunday,  Christ- 
opher, out  of  the  house  for  the  first  time  since  his 
illness,  dined  with  his  mother  in  Merrick  Square. 
Old  Jack  was  greatly  moved  by  the  little  boy's 
appearance,  and  frequently  had  moisture  in  his  eyes. 
When  he  stood  up  to  say  grace  his  voice  was  husky, 
and  his  hands  shook  in  carving  the  hot  roast  beef. 
He  was  quite  silent  through  the  meal,  and  occa- 
sionally he  made  violent  use  of  his  bandana  handker- 
chief. 

174 


The   New  Life 

After  dinner  Christopher  was  placed  on  the  drawing- 
room  sofa  and-  provided  with  books.  Mrs.  Grindley 
sat  beside  Mary  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Old 
Jack,  who  had  remained  in  his  grandfather  chair  at 
the  table,  did  not  join  them. 

"We  have  been  making  inquiries,"  said  Mrs.  Grindley, 
lowering  her  voice  a  little,  "and  we  find  that  the 
mission  church  wants  a  lady  visitor.  It  is  work  that 
you  would  like,  because  you  are  good  ;  and  it  is  work 
which  would  prosper  in  your  hands,  because  you  know 
so  well  that  of  ourselves  we  can  do  nothing.  But, 
my  dear,  there  is  the  monetary  side.  Religion,  un- 
fortunately, cannot  afford  to  pay  its  labourers  such 
fine  wages  as  beauty  doctors  and  witches  and  magicians 
and  humbugs.  The  money  in  this  case  is  forty-five 
pounds  a  year.  But  stop  a  minute.  You  could  add 
a  little  to  this  by  giving  French  lessons  to  one  or  two 
children  in  the  neighbourhood.  You  would  be  saved 
travelling  expenses.  And  if  you  can  bring  yourself 
to  send  Christopher  back  to  the  Board  school,  with 
the  little  help  which  we  love  to  give  you,  you  might 
just  manage  to  scrape  along." 

The  thought  of  such  work  was  a  joy  to  Mary 
Grafton.  Her  heart  leapt  at  the  idea.  Not  only 
was  it  deliverance  from  the  horror  of  her  present 
trade,  but  it  was  work  definitely  good,  useful,  and 
noble.  Moreover,  she  would  have  Christopher  always 
at  her  side. 

Such  a  light  came  into  her  great  eyes  that  little 
Mrs.  Grindley  very  nearly  began  to  cry. 

"  I  could  desire  nothing  better  in  all  the  world,"  said 
Mary. 

175 


The  Shadow 

But  the  thought  of  the  Board  school  was  terrible. 
"  Don't  you  think,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.    Grindley, 
when  this   fear  had  been  uttered,    "that  you  might 
write  to  your  relations   and    get  them   to   pay   for 
Christopher's  schooling  ? " 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened.  Old  Jack 
appeared  with  his  churchwarden  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
He  was  very  red.  His  eyes  stared  more  than  ever. 
Without  looking  at  any  one  in  particular  he  said  : 
"  I'll  arrange  with  Nuttle.  I'll  settle  that  He  shan't 
go  back  to  the  school."  These  words  were  the  first 
that  had  crossed  Mr.  Grindley's  lips,  except  the  grace 
before  and  after  dinner,  since  his  guests  arrived  ;  and, 
having  delivered  them,  with  his  head  in  the  air,  his 
pipe  stem  close  to  his  lips,  the  Colossus  retired  again, 
and  closed  the  door  rather  noisily. 

Mr.  Nuttle  was  reader  to  a  firm  of  publishers  in 
a  very  small  way  of  business.  He  earned  something 
over  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  in  this  manner,  and 
added  to  his  income  by  writing  occasional  articles  for 
the  newspapers  and  magazines.  He  occupied  a  single 
room  in  Trinity  Square. 

This  was  the  gentleman  recommended  by  the 
Grindleys  as  a  tutor  for  Christopher.  He  was  a  clever 
man.  He  went  to  church.  His  character  was  beyond 
reproach.  They  had  ascertained  that  he  would  be 
willing  to  give  Christopher  two  hours  in  the  morning, 
one  in  the  afternoon,  and  that  he  would  provide  the 
boy  with  an  adequate  amount  of  home-work. 

Now  that  Old  Jack  had  undertaken  to  arrange 
matters  with  Nuttle,  nothing  stood  in  Mary's  way. 
She  was  able  to  refuse  Sir  Matthew's  offer,  to  retire  in 

176 


The   New  Life 

a  few  weeks  from  Bond  Street,  and  to  begin  her  new 
work  in  connexion  with  the  mission  church. 

How  bright  was  now  her  simple  and  useful  exist- 
ence. The  loss  in  money  was  considerable,  but  she 
was  helped  on  every  side  ;  to  begin  with,  Miss  Maffey 
reduced  the  rent  from  five-and-sixpence  to  four-and- 
ninepence  ;  the  two  shillings  hitherto  spent  in  fares 
was  a  clear  gain  ;  Mrs.  Grindley  supplied  the  week's 
tea  and  coffee  ;  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith  sent  every 
month  from  Selangor  a  money-order  for  a  sovereign  ; 
and  Mary  was  paid  half-a-crown  a  week  by  the  clergy- 
man in  charge  of  the  mission  for  giving  two  of  his 
little  girls  an  hour's  conversation  in  French  five  days 
a  week. 

Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mary  was 
supremely  and  quite  wonderfully  happy.  She  loved 
her  work,  which  had  the  inspiration  behind  it  of  her 
whole  temperament  and  her  purest  ambitions.  She 
made  delightful  friends  among  the  poor  people,  who 
became  really  dear  to  her.  She  discovered  mothers 
supporting  their  children  and  bringing  them  up  religi- 
ously on  six  and  seven  shillings  a  week,  whose  person- 
alities exercised  a  spell  over  her.  She  made  acquaint- 
ance in  little  back  attics  with  gentlepeople  fallen  upon 
evil  times  who  neither  boasted  of  past  grandeur  nor 
complained  of  present  poverty,  but  bore  everything 
with  resignation  and  a  cheerful  goodwill.  She  had 
particular  friends  in  blocks  of  buildings  or  in  tiny 
two-storeyed  houses  tucked  away  in  courts  and  alleys, 
whose  eyes  brightened  at  her  coming.  There  were 
two  pensioners  who  lived  together,  a  paralysed  man 
and  a  blind  man  to  whom  she  was  very  much  devoted  ; 

177  N 


The  Shadow 

the  great  joke  of  these  two  old  men  was  that  the 
paralysed  man  could  see  but  could  not  catch  the  insects 
which  troubled  their  peace  at  night,  while  the  blind 
man  who  might  have  caught  them  could  not  see  them. 
These  two  buoyant  old  fellows  got  to  love  Mary 
Grafton,  and  her  affection  for  them  was  a  new  force 
in  her  life,  making  for  cheerfulness  and  good  spirits ; 
they  were  the  first  people  who  had  made  her  laugh 
since  childhood.  In  a  word,  the  world  opened  its  little 
doors  to  this  charming  woman,  and  in  going  about 
doing  good  she  discovered  with  a  joy  that  uplifted  her 
own  character  and  widened  her  humanity  how  much 
virtue,  charity,  courage,  and  religion  lie  buried  from 
the  eyes  of  a  hurrying  age  in  the  shabbiest,  saddest, 
and  most  destitute  quarters  of  a  great  city.  From  a 
nunnery,  she  came  into  the  world  and  realised  the 
large  heart  of  humanity. 

"  You  seem  to  grow  younger  every  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Grindley  one  morning,  when  they  encountered  each 
other  in  the  Borough  High  Street. 

"  It  is  because  I  am  always  meeting  people  so  much 
braver,  better,  and  happier  than  myself,"  answered 
Mary  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

There  is  a  light  in  the  face  of  good  women  who 
give  their  lives  to  the  poor  which  is  never  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER    XII. 
THE    METHOD  OF    AUGUSTUS    NUTTLE 

WHILE  Mary  Grafton  was  experiencing  this 
spiritual  change  in  her  new  work,  the  mind  of 
Christopher,  under  the  intellectual  dominance 
of  Mr.  Nuttle,  was  beginning  to  take  vigorous  shape. 

At  first  he  was  stunned  by  the  impact  of  this 
tremendous  person,  but,  recovering  from  the  first 
shock,  he  soon  awoke  to  a  consciousness  very  much 
more  lively  than  ever  he  had  enjoyed  before. 

Mr.  Nuttle  was  a  rousing  and  an  expansive  boyish- 
looking  gentleman  of  two-and-thirty.  He  had  a 
tumbled  mass  of  curly  light  hair,  hanging  red  cheeks 
generally  streamed  by  two  shining  trickles  of  perspira- 
tion, a  double  chin,  a  ragged  moustache,  a  snub  nose 
topped  with  eyeglasses,  round  childlike  eyes,  thick 
eyebrows,  solid  temples,  and  a  girth  which  afforded 
constant  amusement  to  his  friends.  The  wags  among 
his  acquaintances  quoted  concerning  him  the  lines  of 
that  other  Augustus  in  the  "  Struwwelpeter," 

"Augustus  was  a  chubby  lad, 
Fat  ruddy  cheeks  Augustus  had." 

They   also   called   him    "  Nuts   and    May,"   or  more 
intimately,  "  Nutty." 

"  Christopher,"  he  said  impressively,  on  the  first 
morning  of  their  acquaintance,  "  I  am  going  to  place 

179  N  2 


The  Shadow 

at  your  disposal  not  only  my  brain,  which  hath 
strange  places  crammed  with  observation,  but  my 
experience,  which  is  a  jewel.  I  know  men  and 
books,  cities  and  history.  I  have  exhausted  the 
philosophy  of  the  Greeks,  the  jurisprudence  of  the 
Romans,  the  religions  of  Asia,  the  politics  of  modern 
Europe.  I  know  where  humanity  now  stands ;  I 
know  the  frontiers  of  its  fretful,  midge-like  activities. 
More  than  all  this,  my  devout  pupil,  I  know  the  heart 
of  man.  Life  is  mine  oyster,  as  London  is  my 
garden.  I  love  this  great  city.  You  shall  love  it 
too,  because  I  will  teach  you  to  understand  it." 

Christopher  had  laid  out  his  books  with  the  neat- 
ness taught  to  him  by  his  mother.  There  were  the 
copy-book  and  exercise-book  together,  with  a  piece 
of  blotting-paper  on  top  of  them,  the  little  pile  of 
lesson-books  on  the  left  side,  the  ruler  and  two  pens 
on  the  right  side,  and  in  the  middle  a  penny  bottle 
of  ink. 

Mr.  Nuttle  pointed  to  this  arrangement  and  said, 
"  Remove  those  baubles,"  then  he  added,  producing  a 
dirty  briar  pipe  and  a  shabby  tobacco  pouch  from  his 
pocket,  "  and  get  your  headgear." 

As  the  surprised  Christopher  walked  beside  his 
tutor  in  the  street  he  discovered  Mr.  Nuttle's  method 
of  education.  It  was  extremely  interesting.  Before 
a  grocer's  shop  the  fat  young  man,  pipe  in  mouth, 
would  stop,  and  in  a  few  moments  saturate  Chris- 
topher's mind  with  a  knowledge  of  commercial 
geography.  There  was  not  a  tin  of  fruit,  a  bottle 
of  pickles,  a  heap  of  currants,  a  packet  of  tea,  a  bowl 
of  sugar,  or  a  round  of  cheese  which  did  not  inspire 

1 80 


The   Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

the  tutor  with  a  lecture  on  the  products  of  various 
soils,  the  customs  of  the  people  who  produced  them, 
the  climate  and  scenery  under  which  they  were  pro- 
duced, and  the  shipping  business  which  brought  them 
into  the  market  of  Great  Britain.  The  smallest  thing 
served  Mr.  Nuttle  for  instruction.  From  the  brass 
badge  on  the  leg  of  a  street  sweeper  to  the  doubtful 
ices  dished  out  in  little  green  and  blue  glasses  by  a 
sunburned  Italian — everything  in  the  London  streets 
loosed  the  descriptive  and  didactic  eloquence  of  Mr. 
Nuttle.  The  window  of  a  chemist's  shop  was  his 
laboratory  for  expounding  the  high  mysteries  of 
chemistry ;  an  ironmonger's  gardening  tools  made 
him  a  professor  of  agriculture ;  a  second-hand  book- 
seller's grubby  trays  caught  him  up  into  literature, 
philosophy,  and  theology  ;  a  milliner's  window  not 
only  gave  him  opportunity  for  pointing  out  the  im- 
mense part  played  by  women  in  the  commerce  of  the 
world,  and  not  only  enabled  him  to  assign  the  silks 
to  France,  the  cottons  to  Lancashire,  the  lace  to 
Brussels,  and  the  jet  to  Whitby,  but  gave  him  a 
jumping-off  ground  for  a  psychological  dissertation 
on  the  feminine  mind,  with  biographical  details  of 
certain  historical  women,  which  quickened  Christo- 
pher's dormant  faculties  while  it  puzzled  his  com- 
prehension. 

Moreover,  as  they  walked  along,  he  would  say, 
"This  man  approaching  us  in  the  brown  coat  is  a 
fool.  He  drinks.  Drink,  Christopher,  is  not  a  thing 
even  to  be  handled  by  giants.  It  destroys  the 
verminous  populations  of  cities,  it  kills  the  soul  of 
a  decadent  race.  Avoid  it,  Christopher.  I  myself 

181 


The  Shadow 

handle  beer,  because  my  health  requires  it,  and  my 
moral  control  is  sufficient.  But  water  is  good  enough 
for  the  outside  of  the  body  ;  let  it  serve  you  also 
for  the  inner  man.  Drink  is  the  hydra."  Or,  when 
he  was  religiously  disposed— and  Mr.  Nuttle's  religion 
was  a  declamation  rather  than  a  life — he  would  per- 
haps say,  "  This  woman  with  the  silly  face  passes  for 
a  good-natured  creature  among  her  friends  and  is 
counted  an  affectionate,  good  mother;  but  her  children 
will  grow  up  weak,  profitless,  vicious.  They  will 
arraign  her  at  the  Seat  of  Judgment  ;  her  love  will 
have  cost  them  their  souls.  Love  is  a  term  too  loosely 
used,  Christopher.  To  love  a  child  with  sugar  and 
kisses  is  to  ruin  it.  In  real  love  there  is  strength, 
sternness,  inflexible  direction.  Such  is  the  love  of 
God,  who  cleanses  the  earth  with  hurricane  and  storm. 
Nature  is  tremendous  ;  it  is  majestic.  No  parent  who 
loved  a  child,  in  the  noble  use  of  that  term,  ever  lost 
the  soul  of  the  child.  On  the  other  hand,  Christopher, 
most  of  our  sad  human  wreckage  is  the  product  of 
that  false,  sugary  love  of  indulgence  and  weakness 
which  is  the  curse  of  England.  Write  on  the  tablets 
of  your  memory  that  the  children  of  cruel  and  neglect- 
ful parents  are  ofttimes  strong  and  profitable,  the 
children  of  indulgent  parents,  never.  Grasp  the  idea 
that  the  love  of  God  is  a  chastening  and  a  strengthen- 
ing affection,  something  sublime,  awful,  ghostly.  The 
fear  of  God  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom.  The  greatest 
injury  done  to  humanity  by  the  Roman  Catholic  re- 
ligion lies  in  its  enervating  misrepresentation  of  Divine 
love  ;  they  have  placed  a  Woman  in  Heaven,  some 
of  them  even  call  her  '  Our  dearest  Mamma.'  Chris- 

182 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

topher,  your  character  depends  on  your  comprehension 
of  God's  Fatherhood." 

The  most  interesting  part  of  Mr.  Nuttle's  method 
lay  in  his  visits  to  such  splendid  storehouses  as  the 
British  Museum,  the  Natural  History  Museum,  the 
National  Gallery,  Westminster  Abbey,  and  the  Botani- 
cal Gardens,  Kew  Gardens,  and  the  Gardens  of  the 
Zoological  Society. 

Christopher  never  forgot  to  the  end  of  his  days  the 
first  visit  he  made  with  Mr.  Nuttle  to  the  National 
Gallery.  He  was  struck  dumb  with  amazement  At 
first  he  heard  nothing  that  was  said  by  his  tutor. 
With  a  thumping  heart  and  staring  eyes  he  stood 
transfixed  by  the  genius  of  Velasquez.  He  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  paintings.  From  canvas  to  canvas 
he  moved  with  a  growing  and  quite  breathless  as- 
tonishment, bewildered  by  the  crowding  endless 
wonders  of  immortal  genius.  It  was  a  new  world. 
Augustus  seemed  like  a  genie  who  had  caught  him 
from  the  grey  streets  of  London  and  on  some  magic 
carpet  had  carried  him  to  enchanted  regions. 

Then  he  began  to  listen  to  his  tutor.  Mr.  Nuttle 
made  every  picture  interesting.  He  understood  the 
science  of  this  art.  He  brought  out  unsuspected 
beauties  and  developed  in  the  boy's  mind,  hitherto 
occupied  only  by  form,  a  sense  of  the  more  spiritual 
achievement  of  colour.  He  had  anecdotes  to  tell  of 
the  great  painters,  he  unfolded  a  pageant  of  history 
as  they  went  from  room  to  room.  "  I  astonish  you," 
he  said,  at  last.  "  I  astonish  myself — 

'And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew.' 

I83 


But  I  will  tell  you  my  secret.  A  Whitakers  Almanack, 
Christopher,  is  the  only  book  one  needs  to  lay  down 
the  law  on  politics  and  to  astonish  a  dinner  table  with 
facts  and  figures.  For  the  rest,  one  must  love.  From 
boyhood  I  have  loved  pictures.  I  could  no  more 
draw  a  man's  beard  than  I  could  draw  a  woman's 
eye ;  but,  because  I  love  pictures,  I  understand  them 
as  well  as  any  painter  that  ever  lived,  except  Velas- 
quez." He  raised  his  hat.  "  You  must  love  pictures, 
too.  No  man  without  this  sense  of  beauty  is  a  com- 
plete being.  Whether  you  can  draw  or  not,  you  must 
be  ready  to  go  a  hundred  miles  to  see  a  great  picture." 

It  was  really  astonishing  how  Christopher's  mind 
brightened  and  widened  under  this  strange  tutoring. 
He  became  more  vivacious  and  intellectually  more 
energetic.  He  was  quick  with  banter  and  jest.  He 
ran  on  ahead  of  whatever  his  mother  was  saying  to 
him  ;  he  anticipated  the  end  of  conversations  ;  he  was 
eager,  impulsive,  wonderfully  nimble.  He  laughed 
when  he  described  his  walks  with  Mr.  Nuttle,  but 
never  irreverently ;  he  saw  the  humorous  aspect  of 
that  prodigious  personality,  but  he  knew  that  his  own 
mind  sunned  itself  and  expanded  in  the  radiance  and 
illumination  of  the  fat  young  man. 

"  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Kindred  this  afternoon,"  he  once 
said  to  his  mother,  "  and  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  like 
Mr.  Nuttle  half  so  much  as  him,  but  that  he  suited 
Glevering  and  Mr.  Nuttle  suited  London.  I  drew  a 
picture  of  Mr.  Nuttle  in  his  pork-pie  hat,  with  a  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  his  tie  round  his  neck,  pointing  up 
to  Nelson's  column  and  saying,  'What  Nelson  was 
on  sea,  Nuttle  is  on  land.'  It  was  just  like  him,  when 

184 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

he  puffs  out  his  cheeks,  blows  out  his  lips,  and  snorb 
down  his  nose." 

Christopher  became  so  sharp  that  he  soon  discovered 
Mr.  Nuttle's  weak  spots.  Augustus,  in  their  walks 
through  the  London  streets,  would  sometimes  leave 
Christopher  at  a  street  corner,  telling  him  to  observe 
people ;  on  his  return  he  would  examine  his  pupil 
on  what  he  had  observed  ;  Christopher  was  conscious 
on  these  occasions  of  a  strong  smell  of  beer. 

It  chanced  that  an  important  visitor  called  in  Trinity 
Street  on  an  afternoon  when  Mr.  Nuttle  and  Christopher 
happened  to  be  at  home,  at  work  in  the  eyry.  Miss 
Maffey  opened  the  door  on  the  chain,,  and  exposed 
the  point  of  her  nose  and  the  corner  of  her  eye,  asking 
sharply,  "  Who  is  it  ? " 

A  lady's  voice  replied,  "  Mrs.  Grafton  lives  here,  I 
think?"' 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  her  ? "  demanded  Miss  Maffey, 
becoming  more  visible. 

"  If  she  is  at  home." 

"  She  is  not." 

"  I  should  like  to  wait  till  she  returns." 

"  Are  you  a  friend,  or  do  you  come  on  business  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  relation." 

"  Stop  a  minute."  The  door  closed,  the  chain  was 
unfastened  ;  then  once  more  the  door  opened,  but  this 
time  with  a  wider  sweep  of  confidence  and  hospitality, 
and  Miss  Maffey,  in  a  shabby  shawl  and  a  dirty  cap, 
confronted  Miss  Grafton  of  Glevering. 

The  inspection  and  cross-examination  proving  satis- 
factory, Isabel  was  admitted  and  conducted  to  the  top 
of  the  house. 

185 


The  Shadow 

Horrified  by  Miss  Maffey,  horrified  by  the  stairs, 
horrified  by  the  odour  of  the  place,  Isabel  was  shown 
into  a  garret  full  of  tobacco  smoke.  While  she  stood 
coughing  and  half-blinded  on  the  threshold  she  dis- 
cerned the  nephew  of  Sir  Matthew  sitting  over  lesson- 
books  with  a  quite  impossible  young  man  in  a 
mustard-coloured  suit.  This  impossible  young  man, 
who  was  disgustingly  fat,  removed  his  pipe,  went  to 
the  window,  and  opened  it.  "  Out,  Nicotina,  out ! " 
he  exclaimed,  and  turned  to  address  the  visitor  with  a 
confident  and  condescending  affability. 

Miss  Grafton  for  one  cold  freezing  moment 
measured  with  haughty  eyes  the  fat  young  man, 
whose  friends  called  him  "  Nutty "  ;  then  she  turned 
to  her  nephew  and,  advancing  a  step  further  into  the 
room,  asked  Christopher  if  he  had  forgotten  who  she 
was.  Christopher's  extreme  pallor  was  an  emphatic 
answer  in  the  negative.  He  rose  from  the  table  and 
approached  his  aunt  with  a  hanging  head,  giving  her 
a  very  timid  hand  with  grubby  and  ink-stained  fingers. 

While  she  was  inquiring  from  Christopher  concerning 
his  mother's r  absence,  Augustus  Nuttle  possessed 
himself  of  his  pork-pie  hat  and  walking-stick.  He 
approached  Miss  Grafton,  laying  an  affectionate  and 
paternal  hand  on  Christopher's  shoulder,  and  said, 
"  My  pupil  will  not  regret  that  you  have  interrupted 
the  infinitive  mood  of  '  moneo.'  My  own  feelings  are 
not  important.  Permit  me,  madam,  to  take  my 
leave."  With  a  courtier's  bow,  he  backed  away  and 
departed 

Isabel  found  Christopher  singularly  dull.  To  all 
her  probing  questions  he  returned  answers  the  most 

1 86 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

hazy,  uncertain,  and  vexatious  imaginable.  When 
Miss  Grafton  asked  him  if  he  would  not  like  to  return 
to  Glevering,  he  replied,  after  a  nervous  pause,  that 
Mr.  Nuttle  thought  no  boy  could  be  properly  educated 
out  of  London.  Baffled  by  the  boy,  Isabel  began  to 
look  about  her. 

This  sitting-room  was  also  the  kitchen  and  Christo- 
pher's bedroom.  Mary  slept  in  the  much  smaller 
chamber  which  led  out  from  it.  By  skilful  questioning 
and  rummaging  about  on  her  own  account,  Isabel 
discovered  that  the  draped  ottoman  was  the  coal  box, 
holding  a  hundredweight,  that  pots  and  pans  were 
hidden  under  the  coverings  of  chairs  and  tables,  that 
the  strangest  looking  sofa  in  the  world  became  Christo- 
pher's bed  at  night,  and  that  a  small  draped  table  with 
books  and  photographs  on  top  was  his  washstand. 
Miss  Grafton  went  to  and  fro  in  this  garret,  lifting 
up  coverings  with  the  end  of  her  parasol  and  peeping 
under  chairs  and  tables  with  impatient  scorn. 

"  It  is  really  a  preposterous  way  of  living,"  she  said  ; 
"  and  the  difference  it  has  made  in  you  is  perfectly 
dreadful.  You  look  the  ghost  of  your  former  self. 
It  is  high  time  you  came  to  the  country  and  had 
your  pony  again." 

Mary  Grafton  saw  a  cab  at  the  door  when  she 
returned  and  learned  from  Miss  Maffey  that  a  relation 
had  come  to  see  her.  She  guessed  at  once  that  Isabel 
was  upstairs.  It  was  tea-time,  and  Mary  carried  in  a 
piece  of  newspaper  two  very  fine  Borough  bloaters  with 
which  she  had  purposed  to  delight  the  soul  of  Chris- 
topher. When  she  opened  the  door  of  her  eyry  and 
advanced  to  greet  her  sister-in-law,  Miss  Grafton  said, 

187 


The  Shadow 

"  My  dear  Mary,  what  an  atmosphere  !  When  I  first 
entered  it  reeked  like  a  tobacconist's  shop,  and  now 
it  smells  like  Billingsgate.  What  on  earth  have  you 
got  in  that  paper  ?  For  pity's  sake  put  it  out  of  the 
window,  and  come  and  tell  me  how  you  are  and  how 
you  think  I  look,  and  when  you  are  coming  to 
Glevering.  As  far  as  Christopher  is  concerned,  the 
sooner  you  come  the  better.  My  dear  Mary,  I  never 
saw  such  a  change  in  a  boy  in  my  life.  He  looks 
deathlike ! " 

Mary  became  very  pale,  she  looked  at  Christopher 
with  grave  anxiety.  "  He  had  a  serious  illness  some 
little  time  ago,"  she  said  turning  to  Isabel  ;  "  but  he 
is  better  now.  I  think  he  is  getting  stronger  every 
day." 

Isabel  was  horrified  to  hear  that  Christopher  had 
been  ill  in  this  frightful  attic.  She  said  that  Mary 
ought  to  have  telegraphed  to  her  at  once.  She  spoke 
about  the  importance of  Christopher's  life.  "  You  seem 
to  forget,"  she  said,  "  that  he  is  likely  to  fill  a  position 
of  great  responsibility." 

Mary  smiled.  "  Isn't  it  enough,"  she  rejoined, 
"  that  I  never  forget  how  very  dear  he  is  to  me  ? " 
She  moved  to  the  ottoman,  putting  off  her  cloak. 
"  I  must  get  you  some  tea,"  she  said. 

Christopher  jumped  away  to  a  drawer  and  in  a 
very  few  minutes,  while  his  mother  lighted  the  oil-stove, 
laid  the  table  for  tea,  producing  among  other  things 
half  a  loaf  of  bread  from  an  earthenware  pan  and  a 
plate  of  dripping  from  the  cupboard.  Miss  Grafton 
was  more  startled  by  the  cheap  cutlery  than  by  the 
dripping. 

188 


The  Method  of  Augustus   Nuttle 

"  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  alone,  Mary,"  she  said, 
walking  to  the  open  window  and  looking  over  the  pots 
of  flowers  to  the  endless  chaos  of  slates  and  chimneys 
which  stretched  into  smoky  distance  with  a  monotony 
and  a  weltering  confusion  horribly  offensive  to  the 
mistress  of  Glevering.  "  Could  Christopher,"  she  said, 
turning  away  and  facing  Mary,  "  take  his  tea  with  the 
droll  person  who  shouted  to  me  over  the  door-chain 
— that  is  to  say,  if  she  is  not  likely  to  give  him  some 
fatal  disease  ? " 

Christopher  was  dispatched  to  Miss  Maffey,  and 
Isabel  sat  down  in  a  chair  as  near  to  the  open  window 
as  she  could  drag  it.  She  refused  anything  to  eat, 
but  accepted  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  Now,  Mary,"  she  began,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
very  seriously.  This  kind  of  life  that  you  are  living 
is  impossible.  You  are  making  a  martyr  of  yourself 
without  cause.  There  is  no  reason  for  you  to  live 
with  shabby  people.  Glevering  is  open  to  you. 
Ample  provision  for  all  your  reasonable  wants  is 
waiting  for  your  acceptance.  You  will  be  free  to 
come  and  go  from  Glevering  at  your  own  will,  and 
no  one  will  interfere  with  your  liberty.  Why,  then, 
should  you  make  a  martyr  of  yourself  and  live  this 
highly  ridiculous  life  in  one  of  the  worst  of  the  London 
slums  ? " 

Mary  surprised  Isabel,  who  was  watching  her  like  a 
cat,  by  the  composed  and  serene  smile  with  which  she 
met  this  frontal  attack.  "  I  am  not  making  a  martyr 
of  myself,"  she  said,  with  a  quiet  amusement.  "  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  never  been  so  happy  in 
my  life." 

189 


The  Shadow 

"  You  mean  that  you  like  this  life  ?  I  don't  believe 
it.  No.  You  are  stubborn  and  self-willed,  you 
troublesome  creature,  but  your  tastes  are  not  low. 
Besides,  even  if  you  did  like  living  among  low  people 
and  pigging  it  in  a  garret,  you  have  no  right  to  keep 
Christopher  from  the  privileges  of  his  station.  My 
dear  Mary,  you  don't  realise  how  terribly  ill  that 
poor  boy  is  ;  I  was  shocked  when  I  first  saw  him. 
Here  he  was,  in  this  tiny  attic,  where  the  food  is 
cooked  and  where  he  sleeps  at  night,  learning  Latin 
with  a  preposterous  fat  person  smoking  a  reeking 
pipe  in  an  atmosphere  that  simply  choked  me.  Are 
you  fair  to  your  son  ?  Is  your  affection  unselfish  ? 
What  imaginable  reason  can  you  have  for  keeping 
him  here,  killing  him,  when  he  might  be  at  Glevering  ? 
You  say  he  has  been  ill.  Can  you  wonder  at  it  ? 
Every  other  person  he  passes  in  these  disgusting 
streets  is  infectious,  I  should  say.  Think  !  You  keep 
Christopher  in  this  howling,  ill-smelling,  and  con- 
tagious wilderness  when  he  might  be  at  Glevering. 
Now,  I  ask  you,  is  that  just,  is  that  reasonable  ? " 

Mary  said  :  "  You  compare  the  Borough  with 
Glevering,  and  you  make  the  Borough  far  worse  than 
it  is.  Other  people's  children  live  here  and  grow  up 
healthy  and  strong.  The  people  are  far  from  being 
low  and  vile.  I  have  many  acquaintances  in  the  back- 
streets  who  are  quite  splendid  and  fine.  You  have 
no  idea  what  good  people  live  in  our  little  streets. 
You  are  really  unfair  to  the  Borough.  Then,  as  to 
Glevering."  She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  added 
with  some  difficulty:  "You  are  naturally  proud  of  it ; 
it  is  certainly  very  beautiful ;  but  you  must  forgive 

190 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

me  for  saying  that  it  is  neither  a  place  where  I  could 
be  happy  nor  is  it  the  kind  of  influence  which  I  think 
would  be  good  for  Christopher." 

Isabel  lowered  her  cup  and  saucer  to  her  lap  with 
a  decisive  drop  of  her  hand.  She  stiffened  her  back, 
raised  her  head,  and  surveyed  Mary  with  an  expres- 
sion of  face  equally  divided  between  genuine  astonish- 
ment and  righteous  indignation. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ? " 

She  could  trust  herself  to  say  no  more. 

Mary  realised  that  only  plain  speaking  could  justify 
her  preference  for  the  Borough  and  cut  short  the 
interference  of  Glevering ;  she  was  also  not  wholly 
unaware  of  the  missionary  spirit — an  impulse  to  bring 
home  to  the  satisfied  mistress  of  Glevering  the  vanity 
and  uselessness  of  her  proudful  existence.  Since  she 
had  worked  among  the  poor,  since  she  had  given 
herself  definitely  and  whole-heartedly  to  the  service 
of  religion,  she  had  learned  to  look  with  other  eyes 
on  all  the  activities  and  standards  of  the  world.  With 
this  new  vision  Glevering  more  and  more  assumed  in 
her  eyes  a  guilty  and  a  godless  shape.  Her  mind 
was  quite  clear  upon  that  point.  The  existence  led 
by  Isabel  Grafton  and  her  brother  was  an  arrogant 
contradiction  of  the  life  commanded  by  the  Light  of 
the  World. 

This  missionary  impulse  drove  Mary  to  emphatic 
utterance. 

"  I  mean,"  she  replied  very  quietly,  "  that  the 
existence  which  satisfies  you  at  Glevering  would  starve 
me  ;  it  would  impoverish  that  part  of  me  which  I  have 
been  taught  to  prepare  for  eternity.  High  ceilings 

191 


The  Shadow 

and  regular  meals  are  not  enough.  And,  believe 
me,  to  a  person  who  knows  how  much  hunger  there 
is  among  the  poor,  a  luxurious  table  is  something 
quite  terrible.  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Sometimes  I  feel  guilty  of  the  little  luxuries  with  which 
we,  Christopher  and  I,  occasionally  indulge  ourselves 
here.  You  see,  there  are  so  many  men  and  women, 
and  so  many  young  children,  who  have  not  even  bread. 
Those  people  are  my  brothers  and  sisters.  I  am  so 
conscious  of  my  littleness  in  the  sight  of  the  Eternal, 
that  I  cannot  put  myself  above  them.  They  are 
really  my  brothers  and  sisters.  If  they  are  my 
brothers  and  sisters  I  must  love  them.  And  how  can 
I  love  them  if,  while  they  starve  and  perish,  I  am  sur- 
rounded by  superfluity  and  do  nothing  to  help  them  ? 
Besides,  it  is  my  greatest  joy  to  help  them.  In  going 
to  them  I  approach  nearer  to  the  love  of  God,  without 
which  I  cannot  live  for  an  hour.  It  is  only  in  service 
that  one  realises  the  joy  of  religion.  Christianity  is 
a  religion  of  service  above  everything  else. 

"  That  is  the  heart  and  soul  of  it  ;  we  express  our 
love  for  God,  our  thankfulness  for  His  mercy,  and  our 
longing  to  be  received  into  His  eternity,  by  striving 
to  bring  others  into  the  same  peace.  Christ  told  us  to 
do  so,  did  He  not  ?  Do  you  know  that  among  the 
poorest  of  the  poor — people  who  have  scarcely  enough 
to  keep  body  and  soul  together — there  is  the  spirit 
of  charity  and  helpfulness  ?  The  widow's  mite  is 
still  being  cast  into  the  treasury.  They  are  wonder- 
fully kind  to  each  other,  these  poor  people,  who  look 
so  shabby  and  sometimes  so  coarse  and  hard.  I  wish 

you  would  spend  a  month  or  two " 

192 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

"My  dear  Mary,"  interrupted  Miss  Grafton, 
getting  up  and  putting  down  her  teacup,  "  I  wish  to 
say  nothing  that  can  hurt  you,  certainly  nothing  that 
can  disturb  your  faith,  which  seems  to  afford  you  such 
enviable  self-satisfaction  ;  but  I  would  counsel  you  " 
— here  Miss  Grafton  drew  herself  up  and  glanced  down 
at  the  missionary  with  a  lofty  superiority — "not  to 
criticise  those  whose  opportunities  for  culture  and 
whose  place  HI  society  are  greater  than  your  own. 
It  might  lead  to  the  asking  of  some  questions  which 
you  would  find  it  difficult  to  answer.  But  that  is  by 
the  way.  I  should  like  to  point  out  to  you  that 
philanthropy  does  not  limit  its  opportunities  to 
London.  You  can  love  your  fellow-creatures,  if  you 
wish  to  do  so,  at  Glevering.  Above  everything  else, 
I  want  you  to  see  that  even  if  your  passion  for  philan- 
thropy overmasters  your  judgment,  at  least  you  should 
not  let  it  override  your  consideration  for  Christopher. 
Religious  people  are  usually  unselfish  abroad  and 
extremely  selfish  at  home.  You  run  a  very  great 
risk  in  dragging  Christopher  away  from  the  advan- 
tages which  belong  to  his  station.  One  day  he  may 
reproach  you." 

Mary  shook  her  head  with  a  smile  which  aggravated 
Miss  Grafton.  "  Christopher  is  quite  happy  with  me," 
she  said  gently.  "  He  does  not  want  to  go  to 
Glevering.  Do  you  know,  I  hope  he  will  never  want 
to  go  there  ? " 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,"  said  Isabel. 

"  I  mean,  that  I  hope  he  will  always  be  so  true  to 
his  higher  nature  that  he  would  find  himself  wretched 
at  Glevering.  If  he  ever  became  its  master,  he 

193  O 


The  Shadow 

would  fill  its  empty  rooms,  I  hope,  with  the  unhappy, 
the  sorrowful,  and  the  tired.  You  would  not  like  to 
think  of  Glevering  put  to  such  uses  ? " 

"  You  have  become  extraordinarily  fanatical !  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  But  you  are.  You  don't  see  how  fantastic  your 
notions  are,  how  impossible  they  are  in  the  modern 
world.  However,  I  must  not  argue  with  you  on  the 
question  of  religion.  But  Christopher  is  another 
matter." 

"  Forgive  me,  Christopher  belongs  to  religion." 

"He  has  rights  which  are  quite  distinct  from  your 
religious  motives." 

"  He  has  no  rights." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? " 

"  We  belong  to  God,"  replied  Mary,  quoting 
F^nelon.  "  He  made  us  not  for  ourselves  but  for 
His  own  purpose.  He  has  absolute  right  to  our 
obedience  and  service."  She  met  the  angry  and  im- 
patient glance  of  Isabel's  eyes  with  a  calm  gaze. 
"  Rights,"  she  exclaimed  gently.  "  How  can  you 
use  such  a  word.  We  are  creatures.  We  have  duties 
towards  our  Creator ;  we  certainly  have  no  rights" 

"  You  are  talking  the  veriest  nonsense  !  "  said  Miss 
Grafton. 

"  No.  Believe  me,  if  you  could  only  forget  Glevering 
and  think  of  the  universe,  if  you  could  only  forget  the 
name  of  Grafton  and  think  of  Calvary,  you  would 
see  that  what  I  say  is  quite  true  and  most  seemly. 
We  have  no  rights  on  the  earth  or  in  existence.  The 
universe  is  too  great  ;  we  are  too  little.  And  humility 
is  one  of  the  chief  instructions  of  our  Master.  If  we 

194 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

deny  that,  we  make  ourselves  superior  to  Him " — 
Mary  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  gentle 
smile  full  of  a  noble  rebuke  she  said  very  quietly, 
"  Compare  for  a  moment  what  your  family  has  done 
for  England,  with  what  our  Master  has  done  for 
humanity !  Is  it  not  a  little  presumptuous  to 
make  ourselves  superior  to  One  who  has  saved  the 
world  ? " 

Isabel  Grafton's  face  was  rigid  with  annoyance. 
"  No  more  sermon,  I  beg,"  she  said  shortly.  Mary 
heard  her  breathing  in  the  pause  that  followed  She 
continued,  "  I  will  ask  you  to  tell  me,  if  I  may,  what 
are  your  intentions  regarding  Christopher's  future  ? 
Sir  Matthew,  who  has  some  right  and  some  claim  in 
the  matter,  would  like  to  know  that." 

"  It  is  my  hope,"  Mary  said  quietly,  "  that  he  will 
wish  to  serve  in  the  Church." 

"  I  see." 

"  I  shall  use  no  force.  Unless  he  feels  himself 
impelled,  I  should  not  wish  it.  But  my  prayers  are 
that  he  may  long  for  that  service." 

"  And,  of  course,  keeping  the  poor  boy  tied  to  your 
apron  strings  and  denying  him  every  opportunity  of 
making  acquaintance  with  the  great  world,  your  in- 
fluence over  him  is  supreme,  and  he  will  do  what  you 
wish.  Very  well.  Christopher  is  to  become  a  clergy- 
man. Now  I  should  like  you  to  be  very  just  in  this 
matter.  I  should  like  you  to  send  for  Christopher 
and  let  me  place  before  him  the  opportunities  which 
his  relations  are  willing  to  provide  him  with.  I  should 
like  to  hear  from  his  own  lips  his  wishes  and  ambitions. 
Will  you  send  for  him  ? " 

195  O  2 


The  Shadow 

Mary  rose. 

"  Before  he  comes,"  said  Isabel,  "  there  is  something 
I  must  say  to  you.  None  of  my  brothers  has  a 
son.  After  their  deaths  Christopher  would  succeed 
to  the  title  and  to  Glevering.  At  present  we  may 
say  that  he  is  the  heir.  But,"  Miss  Grafton  spoke 
with  a  deliberation  intended  to  frighten,  "  if  you  follow 
out  your  present  intentions  regarding  him,  unfitting 
the  poor  boy  for  the  honour  and  the  privileges  of  the 
position,  you  will  disinherit  him.  Sir  Matthew  has 
made  up  his  mind  ;  if  Christopher  does  not  answer  to 
his  ideas,  he  will  marry  again." 

Mary  said,  "  I  would  rather  Christopher  died  at  this 
moment  than  that  he  should  ever  answer  to  those 
ideas." 

The  steadiness  of  her  voice  startled  Isabel  as  greatly 
as  the  outrageous  sentiment  astonished  her.  "Mary  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  "  what  on  earth  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ? " 

"  You  not  only  rob  your  child  of  his  heritage,"  said 
Isabel  hotly,  "  but  you  speak  insultingly  of  those  who 
befriended  you  in  your  destitution  ! "  She  rose  from 
her  chair.  "  What  possesses  you  ?  What  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  I  think  you  are  the  most  unnatural  person 
I  have  ever  had  to  do  with." 

Mary  considered  for  a  moment  whether  she  should 
speak,  whether  she  should  give  utterance  to  the  judg- 
ment against  Glevering  which  had  matured  in  her 
mind  ever  since  she  became  profoundly  acquainted 
with  the  suffering  of  humanity  and  the  deeper  signifi- 
cance of  religion. 

While  she  hesitated,  something  in  the  calm  depths 
196 


The  Method  of  Augustus  Nuttle 

of  her  eyes  warned  her  antagonist  to  provoke   that 
resolute  spirit  no  further. 

"  It  is  useless  to  argue  with  you,"  said  Isabel.  "  I 
really  have  no  words  that  would  apply  to  your  extra- 
ordinary mind.  Please  send  for  Christopher.  I  am 
thankful  that  you  are  fair-minded  enough  to  give  the 
poor  child  an  opportunity  of  expressing  an  opinion  for 
himself." 


197 


The  Shadow 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
MARY  DISINHERITS  HER  SON 

"  "IT  7ELL,  Christopher,"  said  Isabel,  directly  the  boy 

VV      entered  th«  room  and  before   he   had   quite 

accustomed  himself  to  the  knowledge  that  his 

aunt  was   still   there,   "what   are   your   ideas   about 

your  future  ? — what  do  you  wish  to  be  ?     Come.     Sit 

on  this  chair,  and  let  me  hear  you  talk." 

Christopher  cast  a  nervous  look  at  his  mother, 
crossed  the  room,  and  sat  down  rather  awkwardly 
on  the  chair  indicated  by  his  aunt.  It  was  so  near 
to  that  great  personage  that  he  felt  incapable  of 
speech. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  endeavouring  to  adopt  a  pleasant 
and  friendly  tone  of  voice,  "what  is  it  you  would  most 
like  to  be?" 

Christopher  began  to  swing  one  of  his  legs. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Isabel,  affecting  a  smile 
and  looking  at  the  swinging  leg  with  its  clumsy  boot, 
"  that  you  would  like  to  be  a  clock  !  That,  however, 
is  out  of  the  question.  Even  your  mother  would 
not  like  you  to  be  that!  Come,  speak.  What  do 
you  wish  to  be  ?  A  soldier,  for  instance  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  a  lawyer  ? " 

198 


Mary  Disinherits  her  Son 

"  No." 

"  Not  a  lawyer.  Let  us  think  now.  What  other 
profession  is  fitted  for  a  young  gentleman  ? " 

"  I  should  like  to  be "  Christopher  began,  and 

then  stopped. 

"  I  know,"  said  Isabel — "  a  clergyman." 

"  No,"  said  Christopher,  "  an  artist." 

Isabel  laughed  in  her  hard  metallic  fashion,  but 
did  not  look  at  Mary.  "You  will  be  a  long  time," 
she  said,  "  before  you  earn  any  money  as  a  painter. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  become  a 
clergyman  and  paint  in  your  spare  time — when  you 
are  not  engaged  in  teaching  the  Sunday-school, 
writing  sermons,  and  calling  on  invalids  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  clergyman,"  said  Christopher, 
with  some  energy. 

"  Oh,  you  are  emphatic  about  that ! " 

Mary  stood  beside  the  fire,  one  of  her  hands 
resting  on  the  mantelpiece,  her  eyes  directed  towards 
Christopher.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  calm 
and  contented.  She  made  no  effort  to  influence  the 
boy,  and  manifested  no  desire  to  interrupt  the 
high-handed  cross-examination  of  his  aunt.  It  was 
difficult  to  believe  that  the  boy  had  just  uttered 
sentence  of  death  on  the  great  hope  and  central 
longing  of  her  life. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  an  artist,"  repeated  Chris- 
topher, "and  earn  money  to  save  mother  from 
working." 

"Now  that  is  quite  praiseworthy,  Christopher," 
exclaimed  Miss  Grafton,  and  leaning  forward  she  put 
a  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  Then  she  added,  "If 

199 


The  Shadow 

you  want  to  be  an  artist,  and  we  are  allowed  to  do  so, 
your  uncle  and  I  will  help  you  to  be  a  great  one." 

Christopher's  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  looked  at 
her  quickly. 

"  You  must  have  the  very  best  masters,  and  you 
must  live  in  large  and  healthy  rooms,  with  plenty 
of  light  and  air,  and  plenty  of  space  for  your 
canvasses.  You  can't  hope  to  be  an  artist  if  you 
live  in  a  little  dark  attic  under  the  slates  of  a  London 
slum.  You  must  go  to  Rome,  to  Florence,  to 
Dresden,  to  Paris.  But,  let  us  think  for  a  moment. 
Would  you  prefer  that  ? — would  you  like  to  have  fine 
rooms,  to  have  the  best  masters,  and  to  have  money 
enough  to  travel  ? — or  are  you  so  devoted  to  this 
slum  that  you  cannot  bring  yourself  to  leave  it  ? " 
"  Can  mother  come  too  ? " 

"  Oh,  she  will  be  at  your  heels  wherever  you  go," 
smiled  Isabel ;  "  you  may  be  sure  of  that !  All  she 
wants  to  know  is  what  you  wish  and  desire.  A 
pattern  mother ! " 

Christopher  turned  to  Mary.  There  was  such  com- 
placency in  her  eyes  that  he  was  not  suspicious. 
"  Would  you  like  to  ? "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  Let  me  explain  for  one  moment,"  interrupted 
Miss  Grafton,  "what  a  serious  matter  we  are  dis- 
cussing, Christopher.  I  must  tell  you  exactly  what 
it  is  I  am  here  to  learn.  Now  listen  very  carefully, 
and  remember  that  what  you  decide  will  affect  your 
whole  after-life.  I  have  come  to  know  whether 
you  would  like  one  day  to  be  the  sole  master  of 
Glevering,  with  all  its  lands  and  houses  and  beautiful 
possessions,  to  be  Sir  Christopher  Grafton  of  Glevering, 

200 


Mary  Disinherits  her  Son 

rich,  powerful,  and  independent  of  all  the  world  ;  or 
whether  you  would  rather  struggle  to  earn  bread  in 
a  smoky  garret,  poor,  humble,  and  unknown.  You 
are  quite  old  enough  to  decide  for  yourself.  The 
choice  is  for  you  to  make.  Before  you  make  it, 
remember  that  it  now  rests  with  you  to  decide 
whether  you  shall  be  rich  and  free  all  your  life,  or 
poor  and  wretched.  Whatever  you  choose  now,  such 
will  be  your  future  life." 

Christopher's  suspicions  were  aroused.  There 
could  be  no  comparison  in  'his  mind  between  the  joys 
of  wealth  and  the  miseries  of  penury ;  why  was  he 
called  to  decide  between  them  ? — why  was  his  mother 
silent?  Overwhelmed  by  the  thought  that  he  might 
one  day  be  Sir  Christopher  Grafton,  owner  of  all  the 
beautiful  world  named  Glevering,  the  bewildered  boy 
looked  at  his  mother,  a  light  in  his  eyes,  his  whole 
face  eager  and  questioning. 
But  Mary  said  nothing. 

While  mother  and  son  contemplated  each  other, 
Miss  Grafton,  with  a  pale  smile  on  her  face,  looked 
for  the  first  time  since  her  questioning  of  Chris- 
topher began,  at  her  real  antagonist  in  this  duel. 

The  confidence  and  serenity  in  Mary's  face  did  not 
dash  the  hopes  of  Miss  Grafton.  She  knew  now  the 
mind  of  Christopher.  Whatever  influence  the  mother 
might  exert,  whatever  success  might  attend  her 
efforts  to  bend  the  child  to  her  will,  Isabel  would 
know  that  for  ever  and  ever,  to  the  last  hour  of 
her  dying  day,  Mary  would  be  haunted  and  perhaps 
tortured  by  the  thought  that  Christopher,  if  he 
followed  her,  had  followed  her  against  his  will. 

201 


The  Shadow 

"  Of  course  there  is  no  comparison  ! "  she  exclaimed 
impatiently,  rising  from  her  chair.  "  Look  round  this 
poky  attic,  feel  the  compression  of  its  grimy  walls, 
and  then,  think  of  Glevering !  Come,  Mary,  my 
dear  creature,  be  reasonable.  Don't  stand  in  the 
way  of  your  child's  happiness.  Don't  make  your 
maternity  the  shadow  between  him  and  the  sun. 
You  see  what  he  wants.  You  know  that  he  has 
made  the  only  rational  choice  that  a  healthy  and  sane 
person  could  make.  Come,  don't  break  his  heart 
by  saying  that  you  want  him  to  starve  in  this  garret 
until  he  can  scrape  halfpence  enough  to  go  to  some 
obscure  theological  college  and  become  a  curate." 

Christopher's  eyes  grew  suddenly  large.  "  Don't 
you  want  me  to  be  an  artist,  mother  ? "  he  asked, 
with  rather  a  dry  voice.  The  thought  of  becoming 
a  clergyman  had  made  him  stone  cold  and  filled 
his  child's  heart  with  wretchedness.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  mistake  the  real  significance  of  his  hungry 
question. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  what  you  most  want  to  be, 
Christopher."  Mary  spoke  tenderly,  lovingly,  under- 
standingly.  "You  should  certainly  never  be  a 
clergyman  against  your  own  will.  That  would  be 
wicked.  But  you  are  much  too  young  to  decide  now 
what  you  will  be  when  you  grow  up.  Do  not  be 
anxious.  There  is  no  crisis,  no  danger.  You  are 
my  son,  and  I  will  see  to  it  that  you  have  what  is 
best  and  wisest  for  you." 

Christopher  jumped  up  and  went  to  her,  putting 
his  arms  round  her  waist  and  laying  his  cheek  against 
her  breast.  Mary  did  not  flash  a  look  of  triumph  at 

202 


Mary  Disinherits  her  Son 

her  antagonist,  but  bent  a  tender  smile  upon  her  boy, 
and  stroked  his  hair  with  a  loving  hand. 

"  There  is  one  very  distinct  crisis  in  his  life,"  said 
Miss  Grafton,  approaching  a  step  nearer.  "  Whether 
he  decides  now  or  three  years  hence  about  his  pro- 
fession does  not  greatly  matter.  But  now,  once  and  for 
all,  he  must  decide  between  Glevering  and  this  garret. 
Make  that  quite  plain  to  him.  Don't — I  warn  you ! — lay 
up  for  yourself  a  burden  of  remorse.  He  must  decide 
now  between  poverty  and  riches,  between  odious  sordid- 
ness  and  dignified  comfort.  I  have  told  you  Sir 
Matthew's  decision  ;  that  is  irrevocable.  I  either  take 
him  the  message  which  will  enrich  Christopher  and  pos- 
sess him  with  Glevering,  or  the  message  which  will  dis- 
inherit him.  Now,  make  that  plain  to  the  boy.  Don't 
let  him  decide  without  knowing  the  consequences." 

"  I  decide  that,"  said  Mary,  meeting  Isabel's  eyes 

"  Without  reference  to  the  person  affected  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  your  decision  is ?  " 

"  Poverty." 

"  Does  Christopher  like  that  ? " 

"  Whether  he  likes  it  or  not,  that  is  the  decision  of 
his  mother." 

"  Mary !  do  you  really  know  what  you  are  doing  ? " 
Miss  Grafton  was  confounded.  In  a  miserable  attic 
whose  poverty  disgusted  her,  she  heard  penury  and 
destitution  preferred  before  the  pomp  and  pageantry 
of  Glevering — Glevering  with  its  splendid  sun-filled 
rooms,  its  delectable  gardens,  its  repose  and  ancient 
grandeur.  "  What  possible  reason  can  you  have,"  she 
demanded,  "  for  beggaring  your  own  child,  for  robbing 

203 


The  Shadow 

him  of  a  great  inheritance,  and  exposing  him  to  all  the 
bitterness  and  disabilities  of  poverty  ? " 

"  I  believe  in  God" 

Miss  Grafton  recovered  her  composure  and  said  with 
acerbity, "  That  is  an  interesting  expression  of  opinion, 
but " 

"  It  is  everything." 

"  Allow  me  to  finish  what  I  wish  to  say.  A  belief 
in  God  is  hardly  a  good  reason  for  making  a  pauper  of 
the  person  who  has  most  claim  on  your  affection  ;  nor 
can  I  see  why  belief  in  God  should  be  incompatible  with 
existence  in  Glevering." 

"  That  is  because  you  are  not  a  Christian,"  said  Mary. 

"  Will  you  explain  ?  Not  a  sermon,  I  beg,  but  an 
explanation." 

"  I  do  not  judge  you,"  Mary  said  slowly  and  calmly  ; 
"  there  is  no  need ;  the  high  importance  which  you 
attach  to  wealth  and  title  condemns  you.  You  judge 
yourself.  By  the  importance  you  attach  to  such  things 
you  announce  yourself  opposed  to  the  spiritual  view 
of  this  earthly  existence,  which  is  the  religion  of 
Christianity.  Your  own  words  arraign  you  and  con- 
demn you.  Is  it  not  true  that  you  cannot  conceive 
how  I  should  hesitate  for  one  moment  between 
Glevering  and  this  garret  for  my  child  ?  You  appeal 
to  him,  knowing  that  a  child's  eyes  can  be  dazzled 
by  gilded  toys.  Are  you  not,  too,  a  child  to  think 
that  these  things  matter  ?  You  try  to  intimidate  me 
by  making  me  think  that  some  day  Christopher  will 
reproach  me  bitterly  for  disinheriting  him.  Nothing 
can  intimidate  me  ;  I  rest  in  the  promise  of  God.  If 
the  day  come  when  Christopher  reproaches  me  I  shall 

204 


Mary  Disinherits  her  Son 

be  grieved,  but  not  defeated.  I  had  rather  he  re- 
proached me  a  thousand  times  for  making  him  poor, 
than  once  for  making  him  rich.  I  assure  you  that  if 
he  accuses  me  for  robbing  him  of  what  you  call  his 
inheritance,  I  shall  have  an  answer  and  a  justification  ; 
I  assure  you,  too,  that  I  shall  have  strength  to  bear 
his  reproach.  But  if  out  of  the  destruction  wrought 
by  great  possessions  he  should  ever  say  to  me, '  Mother, 
why  did  you  load  me  with  temptation  ? '  I  should  be 
dumb  ;  and  I  think  my  heart  would  break." 

Isabel  did  not  reply  with  anger.  Quite  gently  and 
almost  winningly,  but  with  an  undertone  of  superiority, 
she  inquired,  "  Is  it  impossible  for  a  person  with  great 
possessions  to  live  a  virtuous  life  ? " 

"  I  will  answer  that,  if  you  will  answer  me  one 
question,"  said  Mary,  who  was  still  quietly  fondling 
the  curls  of  her  son.  "  In  your  judgment,  is  the  life 
led  by  your  brother  and  yourself  a  virtuous  life  ?" 

Isabel's  face  glowed  with  the  pale  fire  of  a  bitter 
indignation.  She  surveyed  Mary  with  open  and  candid 
contempt.  "  You  mean,"  she  said  sharply,  "  that  in 
your  judgment  we  are  thoroughly  disreputable  ? " 

"  No.  But  I  do  mean  that  in  God's  judgment  you 
are  disobedient." 

"  Oh,  you  are  acquainted  with  the  judgments  of  God  ? " 

"  They  have  been  uttered.  Don't,  I  pray  you,  mis- 
interpret me.  I  am  not  sitting  in  judgment  on  you. 
I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  I  am  better  than  you. 
But  I  must  say,  because  you  yourself  force  it  upon 
me,  that  you  declare  yourself,  both  by  your  manner 
of  life  and  the  character  of  your  opinions,  superior  to 
the  Master  whom  to  follow  in  implicit  obedience  is 

205 


The  Shadow 

the  sole  object  of  my  life.  How,  then,  can  I  let  my 
son  go  to  you  at  Glevering  ?  Not  all  the  wealth  and 
glory  of  the  earth  could  compensate  for  his  acquire- 
ment of  what  you  call  so  proudly  the  Graftonian 
manner — a  spirit  the  very  opposite  of  Christ's.  I 
have  told  you  I  would  much  sooner  lay  him  in  the 
grave  than  see  him  answering  to  the  ideas  of  your 
brother.  That  is  not  a  fanatical  utterance.  It  is  a 
deliberate  and  most  rational  decision.  How  could  I 
wish  him  to  be  cold,  proud,  scornful,  self-satisfied,  idle, 
and  dreadfully  indifferent  to  all  the  sufferings  of 
humanity,  when  I  follow  the  Christ,  who  was  meek 
and  lowly,  a  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief, 
who  said  that  we  must  love  and  serve  our  fellow-men  ? 
You  condemn  that  idea.  You  are  superior  to  it. 
You  are  convinced  that  the  Graftons  are  right  and 
Christ  is  wrong.  You  wish  my  son  to  acquire  the 
Graftonian  manner ;  the  last  thing  in  the  world  you 
want  him  to  acquire  is  the  Christlike  spirit.  That  is 
the  real  difference  between  us.  You  come  to  him — 
is  it  not  so  ? — with  the  temptations  of  the  world.  I 
protect  him,  so  long  as  my  motherhood  reigns  in  his 
heart,  with  the  power  of  immortality.  I  do  not  say 
that  a  religious  life  would  be  impossible  to  him  as 
master  of  Glevering  —  some  of  the  noblest  people 
supporting  our  mission  here  are  very  rich ;  but  the 
danger  is  great,  poverty  is  certainly  safer  ;  and,  as  for 
the  influence  which  you  and  Sir  Matthew  would  exert 
upon  him  in  these  immature  and  impressionable  years, 
that  would  be  destructive.  There  is  a  wickedness  which 
is  neither  criminal  nor  vicious ;  a  wickedness  which 
offends  no  law  ;  it  is  the  wickedness  of  a  hard  heart 

206 


Mary  Disinherits  her  Son 

and  a  proud  spirit — a  soul  superior  to  God.     At  all 
costs  I  will  save  my  son  from  that." 

"  A  long  sermon,"  said  Miss  Grafton,  with  great 
bitterness.  "  I  am  sorry  that  you  have  such  a  bad 
opinion  of  my  brother  and  me.  I  am  still  more  sorry 
that  your  particular  form  of  Christianity  should  make 
you,  Mary,  that  most  hateful  of  all  characters,  a  self- 
righteous  person.  But  my  brother  and  I  will  manage 
to  outlive  your  bad  opinion  of  us  ;  and  as  for  your 
own  character,  I  confess  that  I  am  not  particularly 
interested  in  it,  having  other  matters  to  concern  me 
in  my  idle  and  wicked  life  at  Gleverin^.  But,  what  I 
do  regret  very  deeply  and  lastingly  is  the  cruel  use 
you  make  of  your  influence  to  deprive  this  poor  boy 
of  his  privileges.  That  seems  to  me  an  act  of 
deliberate  tyranny.  You  have  heard  what  he  said. 
You  have  seen  the  look  in  his  eyes.  If  ever  a  mother 
knew  absolutely  and  beyond  all  doubt  what  her  son 
most  desired  in  the  world,  you  know  in  the  case  of 
Christopher.  And  you  ignore  his  wishes,  his  desires, 
the  whole  tendency  of  his  being.  You  override  his 
character  with  your  own  ;  you  tyrannise  with  your 
ideas  over  his.  You  know,  Mary — you  know  that 
you  cannot  give  him  the  opportunities  to  become 
what  he  most  wishes  to  be,  and  yet  you  deliberately 
prevent  him  from  obtaining  those  opportunities,  with 
a  thousand  other  privileges,  from  people  who  are  the 
nearest  on  the  earth  to  his  dead  father.  I  earnestly 
hope  that  you  may  never  have  to  reproach  yourself 
for  this  most  selfish  tyranny." 

To  do  Miss  Grafton  justice  she  was  quite  unselfish 
and  quite  honest  in  the  expression  of  this  hope. 

207 


The  Shadow 

She  knew  that  if  Sir  Matthew  married  again  she 
would  cease  to  be  mistress  of  Glevering  ;  this  know- 
ledge it  was  which  had  brought  her  to  Trinity  Street 
and  which  had  kept  her  moderately  cool  under  the 
judgment  of  her  sister-in-law.  But,  as  Mary  was 
speaking,  the  reasoning  side  of  her  character  ousted 
the  purely  selfish  purpose  of  her  heart.  As  a  cold  and 
superior  pedant  of  agnosticism,  a%s  a  great  lady  devoted 
to  the  laws  and  customs  of  an  ancient  society,  she 
despised  the  preaching  mother  and  really  pitied  the 
disinherited  child.  Quite  unselfishly  and  quite  honestly, 
we  say,  she  felt  convinced  that  one  day  Mary  Grafton 
would  bitterly  upbraid  herself  for  this  act  of  a  mother's 
tyranny. 

"  Christopher  knows,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  boy, 
"  that  we  are  willing  to  give  him  what  he  asks,  and 
that  you  prevent  us.  That  knowledge  will  grow  in 
his  mind."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  Mary.  "  Once 
more  I  ask  you,  do  you  seriously,  and  with  a  full  sense 
of  your  responsibility,  decide  that  Christopher  shall 
never  possess  Glevering  ? " 

"  A  power  higher  than  mine  or  yours  will  decide 
that,"  replied  Mary  quietly.  "  But,"  she  added,  raising 
her  head  and  meeting  Isabel's  challenging  gaze,  "  I 
do  decide  that  he  remains  with  me  here  through  his 
childhood." 

"  You  disinherit  him  ? " 

"  I  keep  him." 

"You  deliberately,  wantonly  condemn  him  to 
poverty  ? " 

"I  save  him  from  temptation." 

"  It  is  useless  to  say  any  more.  You  have  chosen. 
208 


Mary  Disinherits  her  Son 

Christopher's  life  is  decided.  You  have  sacrificed 
your  child  for  a  caprice.  Your  stubborn  and  self- 
opinionated  obstinacy  tyrannises  over  the  child's  will. 
No  one  can  help  him.  The  unfortunate  boy  suffers, 
and  will  suffer  still  more,  because  his  mother  wills  it." 

Miss  Grafton  advanced  another  step.  "  Good-bye, 
Christopher,"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand.  The 
boy  brought  his  arms  from  Mary's  waist  and  nervously 
took  the  extended  hand,  still  keeping  close  to  his 
mother.  "  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Grafton,  "  that  you  may 
never  feel  the  injustice  which  your  mother  is  doing  to 
you  in  the  name  of  religion."  She  released  her  hand 
and  offered  it  to  Mary. 

For  a  moment  the  two  women  looked  at  each  other 
in  silence,  with  the  child  between  them. 

"  You  must  misjudge  me,"  Mary  said,  very  quietly, 
"  because  your  standards  are  opposed  to  mine.  We 
cannot  understand  each  other.  We  live  in  quite 
different  worlds.  I  think  I  realise  how  foolish  I  must 
appear  in  your  eyes.  Do  try  and  see  how  unwise  you 
must  appear  in  mine." 

They  parted  in  this  manner. 

When  Miss  Grafton  had  left  the  house,  Mary  said 
to  Christopher,  "  Do  you  understand  what  we  have 
been  saying  ? " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  he  answered  ;  "  you  don't  want  me 
to  be  rich." 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  rich  ? " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  rich  so  that  I  could  help  you." 

"  You  can  help  me  now,"  she  said,  kissing  him  ;  and 
laughing  in  quiet  happiness  she  added,  "  You  can 
help  me,  Christopher — to  put  away  the  tea  !  " 

209  p 


The  Shadow 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
UNREST 

MARY  assured  herself  that  Christopher's  mind  was 
really  set  upon  the  career  of  a  painter,  and  then 
she  consulted  with  Mr.  Nuttle.  She  desired  her  son 
above  everything  else  to  serve  in  the  Church,  but  she 
recognised  that  such  a  vocation  demands  an  impulse 
of  the  most  spiritual  and  unequivocal  character.  Never 
once  did  she  seek  to  force  Christopher's  will  in  this 
direction  ;  it  was  enough  for  her  that  in  the  traffic  of 
their  daily  life  she  taught  him  humanity's  responsibility 
to  God  and  breathed  upon  him  the  prayerful  influence 
of  her  pure  spirit.  So  long  as  he  loved  God  she  was 
happy. 

Mr.  Nuttle  agreed  that  Christopher's  wittier  was 
that  of  an  artist. 

"  If  it  can  be  managed,"  she  said,  thinking  of  her 
little  savings,  "  I  should  like  him  to  begin  learning 
now,  while  he  is  still  young." 

"  Madam,"  replied  Augustus  Nuttle,  blowing  out 
his  cheeks,  "  he  has  begun.  He  is  learning  now.  His 
masters  meet  him  day  after  day  in  the  National 
Gallery.  They  are  the  great  masters,  the  only  masters." 

Mary  thought  that  something  more  was  necessary. 

"  Buy  him  some  paints,  a  bundle  of  brushes,  and 
210 


Unrest 

two  or  three  canvasses,"  said  Mr.  Nuttle.  "  Don't  let 
any  second-rate  dauber  corrode  his  young  genius  with 
old  faults.  Time  enough  for  him  to  have  a  master 
when  he  has  learnt  how  far  his  own  method  can  carry 
him.  Poverty  will  do  the  rest ;  for  magister  artis,  as 
I  think  Persius  says,  ingenique  largitor  venter  ;  hunger, 
madam,  is  the  true  master  of  arts." 

So  Mary  brought  Christopher  his  first  materials,  and 
in  their  eyry  he  made  his  first  efforts  to  become  a 
painter,  with  his  mother  for  his  first  model. 

They  were  still  very  happy  together.  There  was 
certainly  no  one  in  the  world  more  dear  to  Christopher 
than  his  beautiful  mother.  He  loved  her  with  all  the 
energy  of  his  happy  and  impulsive  nature  ;  loved  her, 
too,  with  the  fulness  which  her  own  lovable  nature 
created  in  his  affections.  He  remembered  how 
devoted  they  had  been  on  the  prairie ;  how  she  had 
comforted  him  on  the  long  journey  to  England; 
how  she  had  stood  between  him  and  persecution  at 
Glevering  ;  and  how  she  had  worked  for  him,  and 
still  worked  for  him,  in  this  little  room  under  the  slates 
of  a  London  house. 

But  he  could  not  rid  his  mind  of  certain  words 
uttered  by  Miss  Grafton.  They  haunted  him  and 
perplexed  him.  To  a  boy,  however  wholesome,  and 
however  free  from  vulgarity  or  priggishness,  it  is  a 
tremendous  knowledge  that  great  wealth,  immense 
power,  and  a  sounding  title  are  in  some  way  directly 
connected  with  him.  Christopher  could  not  forget  the 
noise  made  in  his  ears  by  the  words,  "  Sir  Christopher 
Grafton  of  Glevering."  He  could  not  prevent  himself 
dwelling  on  Monte  Cristo  dreams  of  prodigious  wealth. 

211  p  2 


The  Shadow 

He  would  lie  in  his  bed  at  night,  hovering  between 
wakefulness  and  sleep,  with  the  delicious  thought  that 
Glevering  was  his,  and  that  he  was  playing  a  lordly 
providence  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith,  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Grindley,  to  Mr.  Augustus  Nuttle,  to  dear 
Mr.  Kindred,  with  whom  he  still  corresponded,  even 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  ;  and  above  all,  to  his  mother. 

Coming  out  from  these  intoxicating  dreams,  he 
could  not  but  be  conscious  of  certain  deficiencies  in 
the  eyry.  Miss  Grafton  had  said,  "  Look  round  this 
poky  attic,  feel  the  compression  of  its  grimy  walls  ; 
and  then,  think  of  Glevering  !  " 

Very  often  did  poor  Christopher  make  this  fateful 
comparison.  He  compared  the  row  of  dingy  geranium- 
pots  on  the  window-sill,  the  soup-plates  of  mustard 
and  cress,  and  the  vases  filled,  some  with  shingle  and 
some  with  fibre,  out  of  which  tulips  and  daffodils  were 
struggling  into  life,  with  the  range  of  greenhouses  at 
Glevering  and  those  wonderful  enchanted  gardens  over 
whose  smooth  lawns  and  through  whose  shady  walks 
he  had  so  often  wandered  in  a  daze  of  delight.  There 
were  a  hundred  ways  in  which  he  compared  the  attic 
with  the  country  house.  Now  it  was  the  dingy  wall- 
papers that  hinted  the  comparison  in  his  mind,  now 
the  broken  hasp  of  the  window,  now  a  chipped  plate, 
now  the  pewter  forks  and  spoons,  now  the  smell  of 
cooking.  Every  hour  of  his  day  this  comparison  was 
suggested  in  one  way  or  another,  and  as  his  faculties 
developed  the  more  impatient  he  grew  with  the  eyry. 
And  when  in  the  crowded  streets  he  stood  before 
shop-windows  and  saw  all  the  fine  things  he  longed 
to  buy  for  the  learning  of  his  art,  he  could  not  help 

212 


Unrest 

remembering  that  Miss  Grafton  had  offered  him  an 
inexhaustible  purse. 

He  could  not  understand  why  his  mother  had  said 
so  emphatically  that  poverty  was  better  than  wealth. 
Money  seemed  to  him  a  perfectly  good  thing,  and 
the  want  of  it  he  felt  to  be  something  which  frustrated 
desires  not  only  harmless  but  the  very  soul  of  his  life. 
It  was  an  inconceivable  thought  for  his  eager  mind 
that  money  was,  in  any  way,  something  evil. 

On  one  occasion,  walking  with  Mr.  Nuttle  through 
the  strange  places  of  Soho,  Christopher  told  him 
about  Miss  Grafton's  visit.  Augustus  Nuttle,  who 
had  been  snuffing  the  odours  and  studying  the  ex- 
hibited menu  of  a  little  French  restaurant,  pricked  up 
his  ears.  He  had  gathered  from  the  Grindleys  that 
these  Graftons  of  the  Borough  were  connected  with 
the  greater  and  infinitely  remote  Graftons  of  a 
baronetcy,  and  one  of  the  finest  places  in  the  country. 
He  had  heard  this  tale  with  about  the  same  interest 
with  which  a  wise  man  listens  to  the  boast  of  poor  Tom 
that  if  he  had  his  rights  he  would  be  rich  Sir  Thomas. 

But  now  from  the  lips  of  the  ingenuous  boy,  Mr. 
Nuttle  learned  how  close  the  connexion  was  ;  nay, 
realised  that  he  was  peregrinating  the  London  pave- 
ments with  a  potential  baronet,  Sir  Christopher 
Grafton  of  Glevering.  He  appeared  to  pay  no 
attention  to  the  boy's  story.  "  I  think  my  exchequer 
can  support  the  charge,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  I  know 
that  my  appetite  deserves  it.  Christopher,  we  will 
go  into  this  gourmet's  retreat,  and  forget  the  world." 
He  rolled  off  Browning's  lines  about  Chablis  and 
Rabelais,  and  entered  the  shop  with  an  air. 

213 


The  Shadow 

During  that  luncheon,  Christopher's  first  experience 
of  a  meal  in  a  French  restaurant,  Augustus  Nuttle 
learned  the  full  story  of  Isabel's  visit.  It  was  a 
summer  day,  and  in  spite  of  drawn  blinds  the 
atmosphere  of  the  crowded  shop  was  oven-like.  Mr. 
Nuttle's  cheeks  grew  redder  and  redder  ;  the  perspira- 
tion trickled  out  of  his  thick  curls  and  ran  down  his 
munching  cheeks ;  between  the  courses  he  took  off 
his  eyeglasses  and  wiped  the  moisture  from  them 
with  his  napkin,  and  drank  great  gulps  of  his  wine. 
When  he  was  served  with  coffee  and  a  cigar,  he  sat 
back  in  his  chair,  stretched  his  legs,  and  considered 
the  story  which  Christopher  had  unfolded.  He  came 
to  a  conclusion. 

"  Your  mother,"  said  he,  after  a  considerable  pause, 
"  evidently  entertains  strong  views  on  the  subject 

of  wealth.  '  What  shall  it  profit  a  man '  From 

that  point  of  view,  Christopher,  money,  power, 
position,  and  all  earthly  glory,  are  ridiculous  absurdities. 
Pallida  Mors  !  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  so  easy 
in  complex  civilisation,  and  in  northern  latitudes — I 
lay  stress  on  51°  30'  48" — to  picture  the  life  of  poverty 
which  is  both  easy  and  agreeable  in  the  Orient 
Horace  recommends  modus  in  rebus.  For  us  moderns, 
the  inhabitants  of  Europe,  the  Blondins  of  51°  30 
48",  the  religious  life  must  needs  be  in  the  nature 
of  a  compromise.  How  far  your  mother  has  done 
well  in  refusing  for  you  certain  great  privileges  and 
perhaps  much  wealth,  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  say 
I  do  not  know  all  the  circumstances.  But  she  has 
chosen.  It  is  your  duty  to  obey.  By  striving 
with  every  ounce  of  your  power" — Mr.  Nuttle's 

214 


Unrest 

cheeks  shook  as  he  uttered  these  words — "  to  win 
glory  and  honour,  you  will  justify  her  choice." 

This  is  what  Mr.  Nuttle  said  to  Christopher. 
When  he  returned  to  his  room  in  Trinity  Square  he 
did  not  immediately  set  about  reading  the  parcels 
of  manuscripts  awaiting  his  decision.  He  lit  a  pipe, 
walked  about  the  room  for  a  few  minutes  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  then  sat  down  at  the 
writing-table  and  took  paper  and  pen.  For  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  blowing  out  his  great  cheeks  and  muttering 
frequently  aloud,  Augustus  Nuttle  was  busily  engaged 
drafting  a  letter  to  the  mistress  of  Glevering.  When 
he  had  finished  this  task,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  read  aloud  the  sonorous 
phrases  with  exceeding  gusto.  He  pronounced  the 
composition  a  "  stunner." 

It  was  a  thoroughly  clever  letter,  a  little  full-bodied 
perhaps,  but  completely  veiling  its  true  purpose. 
Mr.  Nuttle  referred  briefly  to  his  meeting  with  Miss 
Grafton  in  Trinity  Street,  and  without  professing  any 
affectionate  interest  in  Christopher,  went  on  to  say  that 
the  boy's  desire  to  become  a  painter  was  deepening, 
that  his  capacity  for  such  a  career  was  considerable, 
and  that  while  at  present  there  was  no  need  for  the 
expenditure  of  any  money  on  lessons,  the  day  must 
shortly  come  when  it  would  be  essential  for  him  to 
visit  the  great  galleries  of  Europe  and  put  himself 
under  the  instruction  of  some  recognised  master. 
From  this  point  Mr.  Nuttle  proceeded  to  declare  his 
conviction  that  everything  should  be  done  to  give 
Christopher  those  opportunities  which  his  talents 
deserved,  and  without  which  he  could  not  hope  to 

215 


The  Shadow 

be  an  artist ;  and  he  ventured  to  express  the  hope 
that  Miss  Grafton  would  consider  what  might  be 
done  for  Christopher  in  this  direction,  as  he  imagined 
that  the  circumstances  of  Christopher's  mother  would 
not  permit  of  any  thorough  apprenticeship.  He 
concluded  by  the  statement  that  this  letter  was  written 
without  the  knowledge  of  either  Mrs.  Grafton  or 
Christopher,  that  it  was  dictated  by  no  desire  to 
interfere  in  family  matters,  and  that  its  object  and 
excuse  (which  was  quite  true  in  one  sense  of  the 
word)  was  art. 

Miss  Grafton  had  made  up  her  mind  to  delay  the 
day  when  Sir  Matthew  should  go  wife-hunting.  Once 
before  she  had  made  experiment  of  existence  outside 
Glevering ;  she  had  not  cared  about  it  ;  she  certainly 
had  no  desire  to  sit  down  for  a  second  time  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon  and  practise  the  Graftonian  manner 
on  a  small  income.  For  this  reason  Isabel  told  her 
brother  that  Mary  was  still  rebellious,  but  that  she 
was  bringing  up  the  boy  very  nicely,  and  in  time 
would  almost  certainly  surrender.  Sir  Matthew 
nodded  his  head,  well  satisfied  with  this  report,  for 
it  flattered  him  to  think  that  people  had  to  surrender 
to  the  terms  he  dictated. 

"  We  can  afford  to  wait,"  he  said  ;  "  his  blood  may 
save  him,  but  I  anticipate  a  horrid  manner." 

It  came  about,  then,  that  the  letter  of  Mr.  Nuttle, 
which  might  have  received  very  different  treatment, 
was  politely  answered  by  the  great  Miss  Grafton  of 
Glevering.  Augustus  was  delighted.  Isabel  thanked 
him  for  his  kind  interest  in  her  "  unfortunate  nephew," 
declared  herself  willing  to  do  what  she  could  for  his 

216 


Unrest 

welfare,  and  hoped  that  Mr.  Nuttle  would  kindly 
report  to  her  from  time  to  time  the  condition  of  his 
pupil's  health  and  the  state  of  his  intellectual  progress. 
Finally,  this  gracious  letter  said  that  if  later  on  Mr. 
Nuttle  could  persuade  Mrs.  Richard  Grafton  to  let 
Christopher  travel  abroad  with  him,  Miss  Grafton 
would  be  glad  if  he  would  consult  her  privately  in 
the  matter  of  expenses.  Augustus  blew  out  his 
hanging  cheeks,  and  dreamed  great  dreams. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  the  fortunes  of 
Christopher  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith 
came  from  the  Malayan  States  on  a  visit  to  the 
Grindleys  in  Merrick  Square.  Let  it  be  known,  in  a 
parenthesis,  that  when  Miss  Maffey  looked  round  the 
corner  of  her  chained  door  and  for  the  first  time 
beheld  one  of  the  Collector's  irregular  explosions  of 
nervous  energy,  she  was  thrown  into  the  worst 
fainting-fit  of  her  existence. 

The  greeting  between  Mary  and  Annabel  was  a 
repetition  in  a  more  emphatic  manner  of  that  greeting 
at  Glevering  which  had  so  astonished  Miss  Grafton. 
Annabel  could  not  keep  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes,  as 
she  kissed  Mary  first  on  one  cheek  and  then  on 
another,  now  pressing  her  close  to  her  breast,  and 
now  holding  her  at  arm's  length  to  study  the  beautiful 
calm  face.  As  for  Mauritius,  whose  trumpet  nose  had 
waxed  larger  and  had  taken  on  a  more  plum-like 
tone,  he  declared  fifty  times  that  Christopher 
Columbus  had  jumped  into  manhood,  was  a  bully 
fellow,  was  a  game-cock,  would  astonish  the  natives, 
set  the  Thames  on  fire,  and  turn  again  thrice  Lord 
Mayor  of  London  town. 

217 


The  Shadow 

For  the  three  weeks  that  these  kind-hearted  people 
remained  in  London,  Mary  and  Christopher,  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives,  saw  something  of  the  festivities 
of  a  great  city.  The  Smiths  carried  them  night  after 
night  to  the  Exhibition  which  was  attracting  great 
crowds  to  Earl's  Court.  On  some  occasions  they 
would  go  to  one  of  the  minor  restaurants,  which 
Mauritius  declared  was  the  haunt  of  aristocracy,  and 
afterwards  attend  a  concert,  sitting  with  the  ttite  and 
enjoying  themselves  with  immense  enthusiasm. 

"  When  I  come  to  London,"  said  Mauritius,  "  I 
bring  a  few  dollars  with  me,  and  I  see  life." 

"  We  call  this  our  holiday,  dear  Mary,"  said  Annabel, 
who  feared  that  the  lavish  manner  in  which  Mauritius 
was  scattering  his  dollars  might  make  Mary  sigh  for 
great  possessions. 

But,  to  tell  truth,  Mary  very  often  had  to  feign 
gratitude  for  these  excitements.  She  was  sufficiently 
unsophisticated  to  enjoy  entertainments  of  a  melo- 
dramatic character,  and  very  glad  she  was  on 
these  occasions  to  mark  that  merit  always  met  with 
reward  and  incompetence  with  punishment ;  but  at 
some  of  the  other  houses  to  which  his  ignorance  of 
London  had  taken  the  collector  of  jungle  produce, 
Mary  was  not  only  pained  and  horrified,  but  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  a  frightful  fear  for  Chris- 
topher. She  would  turn  her  eyes  from  the  bright 
stage  to  mark  in  the  darkness  of  the  theatre  the  face 
of  her  son.  Sometimes  so  delighted  and  ravished 
was  the  expression  in  his  eyes,  that  she  trembled  and 
felt  cold. 

She  was  really  glad  when  the  visit  of  these  dear  and 
218 


Unrest 

generous  friends  came  to  an  end.  She  wanted  to 
resume  the  happy  monotony  of  her  useful  life  and 
the  delightful  uninterrupted  intimacy  which  existed 
between  her  and  Christopher.  But  the  Smiths  in  their 
departure  had  left  her  a  legacy  of  anxiety.  Mauritius 
had  praised  Christopher's  paintings  in  his  extravagant 
fashion. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  when  I  first  saw  that  penny 
drawing-book  of  yours  in  the  steerage  ?  I  said, 
'You'll  be  President  of  the  Royal  Academy.'  And 
you  will,  too  !  "  Then  he  had  said  to  Mary,  "  You 
must  send  him  to  Paris.  Paris  is  the  only  school  for 
young  genius.  All  the  world  goes  to  Paris.  The 
sooner  the  better.  Let  him  go  young.  When  I  come 
back  next  time  I  want  to  dine  with  Christopher 
Grafton,  R.A.,  at  the  Garrick,  the  Beefsteak,  and 
Buckingham  Palace  !  " 

Praise  of  this  kind  was  not  good  for  Christopher. 
He  was  not  deceived.  He  knew  perfectly  well  his 
almost  ridiculous  limitations.  But  the  excited  words 
of  Mauritius  stimulated  his  ambition,  already  restless 
enough,  and  made  him  long  to  spread  his  wings. 

One  day  he  approached  the  subject  with  his  mother 
They  were  sitting  in  their  attic  at  the  end  of  a  summer's 
day.  The  windows  were  open,  and  the  stir  of  the 
outside  world  came  into  the  room  with  the  fresh  night 
wind  which  fluttered  the  hangings.  Mary  had  washed 
the  tea-things  and  cleared  the  table.  A  lamp  burned 
on  the  table  where  Christopher  was  sitting,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand,  reading  a  book.  Mary  at  his  side 
was  busy  with  needlework. 

Christopher  sighed,  yawned,  stretched  himself,  shut 
219 


The  Shadow 

the  book,  and  got  up  from  his  chair.  He  began  to 
walk  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  There 
was  a  frown  in  his  eyes  ;  his  hair  was  ruffled ;  his 
cheeks  were  hot ;  he  looked  restless,  tired,  irritated. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  with  the 
breeze  on  his  brow,  looking  out  over  the  moonlit  roofs 
and  the  chimneys  spectral  in  the  distance. 

"  You  want  to  go  to  bed,  Christopher  ? "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  mother,  no,"  he  replied  gently.  "  I  want  to 
go  to  Paris.  Now,  if  I  could. — I  should  like  to  get 
into  a  balloon  and  sail  away  this  instant.  I  feel  that 
London  is " 

"  Yes ! " 

"  Keeping  me  back."  He  leaned  his  arms  on  the 
sill,  bent  his  knees  to  rest  them  against  the  wall,  and, 
drawing  a  deep  sigh,  went  on  with  the  burden  of  his 
complaint 

He  was  sixteen,  an  age  dangerous  to  certain  tem- 
peraments. He  was  conscious  of  an  overmastering 
heat  in  his  body  which  made  repose  an  agony  of  the 
nerves.  To  sit  still,  to  be  idle,  to  prosecute  any  slow 
and  laborious  task,  was  really  a  torture  of  his  mind. 
He  wanted  to  be  out  in  the  world  doing  things.  He 
could  not  have  said  what  it  was  to  which  his  spirit 
impelled  him  ;  but  he  knew  that  to  sit  hour  after  hour 
in  this  garret  was  a  frightful  ordeal  which  made  him 
want  to  scream,  or  cry  out  harsh  words,  or  break  things. 

Many  a  man  looking  back  at  the  end  of  a  long  life 
recalls  this  passionate  and  insensate  unrest  of  youth 
as  the  supreme  temptation  and  sharpest  pain  of  his 
experience. 

Christopher  said  that  his  paintings  made  him  miser- 
220 


Unrest 

able  ;  they  were  so  bad,  so  very  bad  and  hopeless.  He 
was  not  quite  sure,  indeed,  whether  it  was  any  good 
for  him  to  go  on  trying.  He  thought  he  would  like 
to  go  back  to  the  prairie.  London  was  hateful.  It 
kept  his  brain  on  the  simmer.  He  wished  he  had 
learned  to  play  games,  or  had  a  horse  to  ride,  or  could 
do  anything  which  had  action  in  it. 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  me,"  he  con- 
cluded miserably ;  "  but,  mother,  I  can't  help  hating 
these  rooms,  hating  London,  and  longing  for  something 
to  happen." 

Did  he  guess,  as  he  leaned  on  the  window-sill 
looking  out  at  the  moonlit  city  and  uttering  these 
complaints  of  irritation  as  though  they  were  nothing, 
that  every  word  struck  the  heart  of  his  mother  with  a 
knife  ? — that  he  was  filling  that  unselfish  heart  with  a 
gigantic  terror  ? — that  he  had  brought  her  suddenly 
to  the  bitter  agony  of  a  mother's  love — the  hour  when 
the  son  ceases  to  be  a  child  ?  She  sat  with  her  back 
to  him,  the  needlework  lying  in  her  lap,  her  hands 
resting  there,  her  eyes  closed.  She  was  praying. 

The  hour  had  come.  Her  son  had  spoken,  and  she 
knew  that  his  soul  had  made  its  choice.  Was  there 
not  a  terrible  significance  in  his  attitude  ? — he  had 
spoken  with  his  back  turned  upon  her.  She  desired 
peace  and  repose  for  his  soul ;  he  had  chosen  action. 
She  had  laboured  to  make  this  room  more  dear  and 
sacred  to  him  than  any  place  on  earth  ;  he  had  pro- 
nounced it  hateful.  She  had  prayed  that  God  would 
give  him  a  quiet  heart  and  a  steady  spirit  fixed  upon 
eternal  things  ;  he  had  suddenly  spoken  to  her  out  of 
a  tempest  of  unrest. 

221 


The  Shadow 

She  reproached  herself.  It  came  to  her  with  a  cruel 
clearness  that  she  had  deprived  this  beloved  son  of 
that  which  might  have  saved  his  soul  from  disquiet ; 
he  possessed  no  friend  of  his  own  age,  he  played  no 
games,  he  was  without  joy.  Alas,  how  wrong  she  had 
been.  How  foolish,  how  impossible  her  scheme.  She 
had  forgotten  that  her  child  was  a  man,  and  that  in 
his  pulses  smouldered  the  fires  of  youth. 

For  a  dreadful  moment  she  thought  of  her  husband. 

But  while  her  eyes  were  closed  she  was  conscious 
only  of  God's  overshadowing  protection,  and  when  she 
opened  them  again  she  was  composed. 

It  came  to  her  that  she  was  disquieted  by  the 
realisation  of  sexual  difference,  the  sudden  apprehen- 
sion that  her  child's  nature  was  different  from  her  own 
— a  nature,  a  temperament,  a  disposition  unalterably 
opposed  to  her  by  physical  laws,  against  which  all 
effort,  even  all  prayer,  was  powerless.  But  the  thought 
came  to  her :  "  It  is  not  his  physical  nature  that  I  love  ; 
it  is  his  soul."  In  the  spiritual  region,  she  realised 
with  a  sudden  accession  of  happiness,  there  is  neither 
masculine  nor  feminine  ;  the  sexual  barrier  does  not 
exist ;  there  is  no  gulf  fixed,  across  which  the  mother 
cannot  reach  to  her  son ;  soul  is  soul,  whether  it 
inhabit  the  body  of  man  or  woman. 

Then  she  need  not  fear.  She  need  not  reproach 
herself.  She  need  not  feel  that  her  son  inhabited 
one  hemisphere  of  mortal  life  and  she  another.  The 
sexual  difference  was  of  the  physical  kingdom  ;  his 
soul  and  her  soul  were  of  like  substance — their  im- 
mortality was  a  divine  oneness  infinitely  above  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  human  passion. 

222 


Unrest 

She  must  forget  that  he  was  man  and  she  woman  ; 
all  misgivings  must  be  banished  from  her  mind  ;  her 
relations  with  him  must  be  confident  and  unques- 
tioning. Religion  was  the  triumph  of  spirit  over  flesh. 

She  was  about  to  call  him  to  her  side,  when  some 
impulse  of  her  soul  moved  her  to  go  to  him  where  he 
stood  at  the  window.  Perhaps  she  felt  in  this  impulse 
a  divine  significance. 

She  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  stood  with 
him  by  the  open  window,  looking  over  the  roofs  of 
London.  He  slipped  an  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
drew  himself  nearer  to  her,  but  he  did  not  look  in  her 
eyes.  The  sounds  of  the  street  ascended  to  their  ears  ; 
they  saw  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  vast  city  melting 
into  the  pearl-like  haze  of  distance. 

"  I  know  what  you  feel ;  I  understand,"  she  said, 
very  gently.  "  You  have  reached  the  age  when  it  is 
hard  to  sit  still.  Birds  leave  their  nests  ;  children  go 
out  into  the  world.  It  is  natural."  She  paused  for 
a  moment,  conscious  of  his  irregular  breathing.  Then 
she  continued,  "  Very  well,  dearest,  you  shall  go.  But 
because  I  love  you  so,  because  you  are  everything  in 
the  world  to  me,  do  not  go  and  leave  me  here  alone 
without  the  sure  knowledge  which  will  make  parting 
from  you  easy  and  bearable." 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  take  her  into  his 
arms,  as  if  to  pour  out  a  flood  of  loving  words,  but 
checked,  and  said  slowly,  "  I  don't  want  to  go  away  from 
you,  mother.  You  don't  understand  what  I  mean." 

"You  want  action,  you  want  a  career,"  she  said 
quietly ;  "  that  is  impossible  here.  It  is  quite  right 
that  you  should  go  away.  And  I  must  stay  because 

223 


The  Shadow 

my  work  lies  here  ;  and  for  other  reasons.  But  I  can 
only  let  you  go  if  I  have  that  knowledge  of  which  I 
spoke.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

He  hesitated.     "  Tell  me,"  he  said  presently. 

"  I  must  know  for  very  certain,"  she  answered, 
speaking  slowly  and  with  a  deep  earnestness  which 
disquieted  his  turbulent  mind,  "  that  you  see  clearly 
the  truth  of  life,  that  your  purpose  is  definite  and 
unchangeable,  that  your  heart  is  fixed.  I  cannot  let 
you  go,  Christopher,  if  you  feel  yourself  uncertain 
about  life.  I  should  cling  to  you,  and  I  think  you 
would  be  unable  to  withstand  my  tears,  for  I  should 
implore  you  with  tears  not  to  go  away  from  me.  But 
if  I  know  that  your  heart  is  fixed  on  eternal  things,  if 
I  can  feel  sure  that  your  character  belongs  to  God,  it 
will  be  easy  for  me  to  bear  separation.  Can  you 
promise  me  that  ?  " 

With  a  sudden  movement,  breathing  hard,  he  turned 
to  her,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  with  his  eyes  hidden 
from  her  gaze,  his  face  pressed  against  her  neck,  said, 
"  Why  do  you  speak  of  separation  ?  I  do  not  want  to 
leave  you.  I  love  you  better  than  everything  in  the 
world.  You  know  how  I  love  you." 

Her  heart  thrilled  with  the  deepest  and  purest 
human  joy. 

"  It  is  sweet,"  she  murmured  tenderly,  lowering  her 
lips  to  his  hair  and  mothering  him  in  her  arms,  "  to 
know  how  greatly  we  love  each  other.  But  I  under- 
stand, dearest,  that  I  cannot  keep  you  here  always  ; 
I  realise  that  you  must  make  your  own  way  in  the 
world.  And  this  does  not  pain  me.  I  am  not  sorrow- 
ful. Only,  only — because  it  is  your  soul  that  I  love— 

224 


Unrest 

I  want  to  know  that  you  are  strong  enough  to  with- 
stand the  temptations  of  the  world.  I  can  lose  your 
presence  for  a  little  without  grief ;  but  I  cannot  lose 
your  soul.  When  you  are  away  from  me  I  want  to  feel 
that  we  have  communion  in  our  prayers,  that  your  soul 
is  adoring  the  God  whom  I  adore,  that  your  spirit 
is  seeking  the  same  immortality  with  me.  Can  you 
not  see  how  tortured  and  miserable  I  should  be  if  in 
our  separation  I  felt  a  spiritual  separation,  if  I  felt 
that  you  were  travelling  further  and  ever  further  away 
from  the  goal  I  am  seeking  ?  That  would  kill  me. 
Look  in  my  eyes.  Christopher,  my  dearest  life,  my 
only  son,  soul  of  my  soul,  what  do  you  read  in  my 
eyes  but  love  for  you — love  everlasting,  unselfish,  and 
divine  ?  Look  deeply  into  them.  What  else  is  there 
but  love  ?  Can  you  see  there  anything  except  love  ? 
Because  I  love  you  so,  promise  me  that  as  long  as 
you  live  you  will  never  let  the  shadow  of  the  world 
come  between  God  and  your  soul.  Realise  now, 
looking  into  your  mother's  eyes,  as  you  never  realised 
it  before,  that  this  difficult  and  fleeting  life  is  but  a 
journey  from  time  to  eternity,  that  nothing  counts 
except  the  soul.  You  will  be  tempted,  for  the  world 
is  full  of  temptations  ;  you  will  be  constantly  in 
danger  ;  you  will  always  be  threatened  ;  never  will 
you  be  perfectly  safe.  Dedicate  yourself  to  God. 
Now.  Now,  Christopher,  as  you  look  into  my  eyes. 
Say  to  yourself  that  you  will  grow  every  day  in  the 
consciousness  of  God,  that  you  will  be  mindful  of 
Him — mindful  of  the  Eternal ;  promise  me  to  pray 
every  morning  and  every  night  for  the  knowledge  and 
love  of  God." 

225  Q 


The  Shadow 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  earnestness  of  this 
appeal.  It  did  not  lie  in  the  words,  and  not  alto- 
gether in  the  tone  of  the  voice.  Christopher  saw 
depths  in  his  mother's  eyes  of  which  he  had  been 
hitherto  unconscious,  depths  of  the  spiritual  life  which 
make  immortality  more  certain  for  him  who  has  eyes 
to  see,  than  all  the  balanced  arguments  of  reason. 
But  above  everything  else,  the  earnestness  of  her  pure 
spirit  breathed  itself  upon  him  in  some  inexpressible 
and  quite  intangible  energy  ;  he  felt  this  earnestness 
pervade  his  whole  being,  entering  into  him  as  light 
enters  and  occupies  a  room  ;  for  a  wonderful  moment 
he  was  exalted  and  illuminated. 

"  I  promise  everything  you  ask,"  he  cried,  kissing 
her  impulsively  ;  "  and  I  will  never  do  anything  to 
pain  you.  Never,  I  would  rather  die." 

"  Not  for  my  sake,"  she  interrupted,  "  but  for  God's. 
You  will  not  be  safe  if  it  is  only  of  me  you  think  ;  be 
mindful  always  of  God.  I  know  life  now,  Christopher; 
I  see  it  so  clearly.  No  soul  is  safe  from  the  soiling 
and  destructive  temptations  of  the  world  which  does 
not  always  have  God  before  its  eyes.  That  is  the 
meaning  of  religion.  Religion  gives  us  the  highest 
and  most  haunting  idea  of  God — a  Divine  Father. 
By  constantly  worshipping  God  our  soul  becomes  so 
strong  that  we  can  withstand  all  the  temptations  which 
would  hurt  and  destroy  it.  First,  a  mind  that  is  full 
of  the  idea  of  God  finds  it  easy  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tions of  the  world — wealth,  show,  and  vanity  appear 
trivial  to  it ;  then  as  the  idea  of  God  deepens,  the 
mind  finds  it  easy  to  resist  the  temptations  of  the 
flesh  ;  and  last  of  all,  when  the  idea  of  God  occupies 

226 


Unrest 

the  whole  soul,  the  mind  finds  it  easy  to  resist  the 
temptations  of  the  devil — pride,  self-sufficiency,  and  all 
spiritual  thoughts  which  are  opposed  to  humility  and 
meekest  love.  It  is  not  enough  for  me  to  feel  that 
you  will  keep  clear  from  the  stain  of  impurity ;  not 
enough  to  know  that  you  will  never  consider  wealth 
and  vanity  things  of  consequence  ;  I  must  know  that 
your  soul  is  set  upon  God  because  you  feel  that  to 
adore  Him  is  your  deepest  joy.  I  want  your  soul  to 
attain  the  purest  heights  of  being.  I  cannot  let  you 
go  unless  I  am  sure  of  you." 

He  had  lost  his  first  ecstasy.  Her  words  troubled 
him.  There  was  too  much  tempest  in  his  young 
mind  for  this  idea  of  adoration  to  enter  and  occupy. 
He  said  to  his  mother.  "  You  have  taught  me  religion, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  anything  that  has  come  to 
me  through  you.  Mr.  Kindred's  last  letter  spoke 
about  religion.  I  said  that  you  had  taught  me  every- 
thing." 

She  was  not  satisfied. 

"  Christopher,"  she  said  gently,  "  it  is  very  difficult, 
when  we  are  young  and  the  world  lies  before  us,  to 
realise  that  nothing  temporal  and  earthly  can  satisfy 
us.  You  do  not  feel  that,  do  you  ?  You  feel  certain 
that  there  are  things  in  life  of  which  I  know  nothing, 
which  you  will  be  able  to  find,  and  which  will  give  you 
pleasure  and  satisfy  you.  That  is  what  is  called  the 
confidence  of  youth.  But  it  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
ages,  the  testimony  of  the  whole  human  race,  that  in 
the  soul  of  man  there  are  immortal  longings  which 
nothing  on  this  earth  can  satisfy.  Possess  yourself 
of  this  knowledge  now.  It  is  your  inheritance  from 

227  Q  2 


The  Shadow 

the  past.  You  are  the  heir  of  this  immortal  wisdom. 
Nothing  can  satisfy  you  on  this  earth.  Do  believe 
that  Then  you  will  find,  by  looking  towards  God, 
by  contemplating  the  idea  of  immortality,  by  working 
out  your  destiny  with  the  conviction  of  eternity  in 
your  soul,  that  the  things  of  this  life  will  assume  a 
new  and  wonderful  meaning  for  you,  and  that  rest 
will  enter  in  and  possess  you.  I  have  taught  you 
many  times  that  saying  of  St.  Augustine,  that  God 
has  made  us  for  Himself,  and  that  we  can  never  be 
at  rest  till  we  rest  in  Him.  Realise  its  meaning  now — 
when  you  are  looking  to  the  world  for  something 
that  you  have  been  unable  to  discover  here  with  me." 

Christopher  said  that  he  did  not  want  the  world 
for  anything  which  his  mother  could  not  give  him  ; 
but  that  he  felt  something  driving  him  to  a  more  active 
existence.  "  It  is  not  wrong  to  wish  to  be  an  artist," 
he  concluded ;  "  and  I  know  that  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  paint  as  I  want  to  paint,  so  that,  you  see,  I 
do  not  expect  to  be  satisfied.  And,  mother,  I  promise 
you  that  I  dream  at  night  of  having  you  always  at  my 
side,  and  earning  your  living  as  well  as  my  own. 
That  is  my  greatest  happiness  and  my  chief  ambition." 

He  was  still  speaking  when  a  knock  sounded  on 
the  door. 

They  both  turned  from  the  window,  and  saw 
Augustus  Nuttle  entering  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
THE  HARMLESS  DECEPTION 

MR.  NUTTLE  came  to  make  a  proposal.  The 
weather  was  so  fine,  London  was  so  unbearable, 
and  physical  exercise  was  so  essential  to  health, 
that  he  thought  two  or  three  days'  hard  walking  in 
the  country  would  do  both  Christopher  and  himself  a 
world  of  good. 

Christopher's  eyes  brightened  at  the  suggestion,  and 
Mary  felt  the  wisdom  of  the  tutor's  proposal. 

On  the  following  day,  very  early  in  the  morning, 
Mr.  Nuttle  and  Christopher  started  away  from  the 
Borough  and  made  their  way  by  omnibuses  and 
underground  railway  to  Paddington,  where  they  took 
train  for  Stratford-on-Avon. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  of  this  excursion, 
while  Christopher  was  in  the  highest  spirits  and 
rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  the  country,  the  two 
pedestrians,  after  breasting  a  hill,  came  suddenly  upon 
a  scene  which  caused  Christopher  to  stop  dead  and 
exclaim.  They  looked  down  from  the  cool  hill-top 
upon  a  green  valley  watered  by  a  broad  river  and 
planted  with  trees. 

"  Why,  I  know  this  !  "  cried  Christopher.  "  I've 
229 


The  Shadow 

been  here  before.  This  is  where  we  lived  when  we 
first  came  to  England." 

Mr.  Nuttle  was  lying  down,  panting  hard,  the 
perspiration  shining  on  his  red  face.  He  took  off  his 
cap,  mopped  his  forehead,  and  said,  "  We  will  call  on 
Miss  Grafton.  I  should  like  to  see  Glevering.  Non 
ego  ventosa  plebis  suffragia  venor.  I  like  to  dine  at 
the  table  of  the  rich,  while  I  remain  Radical." 

Christopher  began  to  dream.  But  he  said,  "  Oh,  she 
won't  care  to  see  me.  We  had  better  give  Glevering 
a  wide  berth." 

Mr.  Nuttle  said,  "  Sit  down  and  rest,  my  pupil.  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Then,  as  Christopher  lay  on  the  hill-top,  looking 
down  into  the  beautiful  vale,  Mr.  Nuttle  sowed  in  his 
heart  the  first  seeds  of  disobedience. 

No  companion  could  have  been  more  delightful  on 
a  walking  tour  than  this  well-read  and  energetic  fat 
young  man  He  had  enchanted  Christopher  at  Strat- 
ford, at  Shottery,  at  Guy's  Cliff,  and  at  Kenilworth  ; 
he  had  made  the  long  and  dusty  road  of  their 
pilgrimage  a  ceaseless  amusement  with  narrative, 
ballad,  anecdote,  witticism,  and  even  burst  of  song. 
His  disquisitions,  too,  had  a  compelling  charm  for  the 
boy  whose  mind  was  beginning  to  question  the  faiths 
of  childhood  ;  no  man  could  hold  forth  more  eloquently 
at  a  moment's  notice  on  theology,  philosophy,  and 
politics.  Christopher  was  more  than  ever  before 
under  the  influence  of  his  tutor. 

Thus,  when  on  the  hill-top  overlooking  the  vale 
which  was  so  movingly  familiar  to  him — the  first 
glimpse  of  England  which  had  intoxicated  his  senses 

230 


J 


'  WHY,  I  KNOW  THIS  !  '  CRIED  CHRISTOPHER,  '  I'VE  BEEN 
HERE  BEFORE.' 


The  Harmless  Deception 

— Christopher  listened  to  Mr.  Nuttle,  his  mind  was  in 
no  fit  condition  to  resist  temptation.  The  love  of  his 
mother  lay  behind  him  ;  the  attic  in  Trinity  Street 
was  not  to  be  thought  of  in  this  glorious  green  world  ; 
and,  if  he  ever  thought  about  them  at  all,  how  poorly 
the  stammering  exhortations  of  his  mother  compared 
with  the  large  discourse  of  his  tutor's  mind  ! 

Augustus  let  Christopher  into  a  secret.  "  Your 
aunt,  I  must  tell  you,"  he  said  impressively,  "is  a 
great  deal  fonder  of  her  nephew  than  that  young 
gentleman  imagines.  She  is  fond  of  him  for  himself, 
but — as  I  see  the  matter — there  is  a  certain  degree  of 
art  in  her  affection.  Ah  !  I  see  deep,  Christopher  ; 
I  probe  to  motives.  Your  aunt,  I  believe,  intends  to 
see  you  in  order  to  make  reconciliation  with  your 
mother.  The  two  ladies  have  had  a  tiff ;  the  one  in 
Gloucestershire  desires  to  be  friends  ;  the  one  in  the 
Borough  is  waiting  on  events.  It  seems  to  me  that 
through  you  the  Gloucestershire  lady  hopes  to  reach 
the  heart  of  Trinity  Street.  You  must  be  circumspect. 
We  will  go  down  to  Glevering,  present  ourselves  to 
Miss  Grafton,  and  see  what  she  has  to  say  to  us." 

Christopher  exclaimed  at  the  idea  of  visiting  his 
aunt,  but  Mr.  Nuttle,  who  had  arranged  the  meeting 
by  correspondence  with  Miss  Grafton  herself,  made 
light  of  all  the  boy's  fears  and  objections. 

"  Your  aunt  is  very  fond  of  you,  Christopher,"  he 
said,  with  emphasis  ;  "  and  you  will  be  an  exceedingly 
foolish  fellow  if  you  slight  her  affection." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is  fond  of  me  ? " 

"  Ever  since  I  met  Miss  Grafton  we  have  corre- 
sponded," replied  Augustus,  getting  on  his  feet 

231 


The  Shadow 

"  You  need  say  nothing  of  the  matter  to  your  mother. 
Miss  Grafton  wished  to  know  how  you  were  progressing 
with  your  work,  how  you  were  getting  on  in  painting, 
and  how  your  health  was — a  most  sympathetic  aunt ! 
My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  confidentially  taking  Chris- 
topher's arm  as  they  walked  forward,  "you  are  one 
of  fortune's  favourites  ;  your  career  is  assured ;  your 
future  will  be  a  brilliant  one.  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  DC  exceedingly  gracious  to  your  aunt,  and,  as 
regards  your  mother,  to  wait  a  favourable  opportunity 
for  telling  her  of  this  visit  and  for  effecting  a  recon- 
ciliation between  the  two  ladies." 

Christopher  was  certainly  excited  by  the  thought 
that  Miss  Grafton  wished  him  well.  The  wild  dreams 
of  immense  wealth  recurred  to  his  mind.  He  thought 
of  himself,  with  a  bewildering  pleasure,  as  Sir  Chris- 
topher Grafton  of  Glevering. 

It  did  not  strike  him  deeply  that  he  was  deceiving 
his  mother.  The  cunning  suggestion  of  Nuttle  that 
he  might  be  the  means  of  making  up  a  quarrel 
between  his  mother  and  his  aunt  worked  in  his  mind 
against  the  operations  of  conscience.  The  sight  of 
Glevering  filled  his  heart  with  emotion.  As  he  walked 
through  the  familiar  park  in  the  glimmering  light  of 
sunset,  and  received  into  his  nostrils  the  deep  earth 
scents  which  revived  a  hundred  memories  of  his 
childhood,  the  excited  boy  could  not  prevent  himself 
from  dreaming  of  the  day  when  all  this  beautiful 
world  would  be  his,  his  very  own,  to  do  with  it  what 
he  would.  And  Mr.  Nuttle,  at  his  side,  was  the 
tempter. 

"  You  must  use  your  reason,  Christopher,"  he  said  ; 
232 


The   Harmless   Deception 

"  this  fine  place,  and  all  the  glory  of  it,  can  be  yours 
— why  should  you  fling  it  away  ?  " 

"  If  you  said  that  to  my  mother,"  replied  Chris- 
topher, laughing,  "  she  would  tell  you 

"  A  lady's  reason  changes  like  the  fashions,"  inter- 
rupted Nuttle.  "  Your  mother,  whom  I  reverence,  has 
had  a  misunderstanding  with  the  present  mistress 
of  Glevering ;  being  a  woman,  she  associates 
Glevering  with  her  misunderstanding ;  but  you  will 
alter  her  views — you  are  destined  to  be  a  peacemaker. 
As  for  Glevering — look  about  you  !  Is  it  goodly,  is 
it  desirable  ?  Is  it  the  kind  of  place  that  a  wise  man 
would  throw  away  on  account  of  a  lady's  tiff  ?  Chris- 
topher, you  must  think  for  yourself." 

The  clock  over  the  stables,  whose  tones  awoke 
fresh  memories  in  Christopher's  mind,  was  striking 
seven  when  the  two  dusty  travellers,  with  ruck-sacks 
on  their  backs,  approached  the  house.  They  were 
crossing  the  quadrangle  to  the  front  door  when 
Isabel  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  carrying 
a  parasol  in  her  hand  and  a  book  under  her  arm. 
Christopher  flushed  at  the  sight  of  her  and  felt  his 
heart  begin  to  beat  with  an  uneasy  thump.  Isabel, 
whose  penetrating  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  smiled 
as  she  approached.  In  a  moment  Christopher  com- 
pletely recovered  his  composure. 

The  travellers  were  welcomed  very  agreeably,  and 
Miss  Grafton  even  stooped  to  jest  lightly  on  their 
dusty  appearance.  "  You  must  make  Glevering  your 
inn,"  she  said  pleasantly,  and  led  the  way  round  to 
the  other  side  of  the  house. 

Her  manner  was  not  affectionate,  but  it  was  free 
233 


The  Shadow 

from  frigidity,  which  Christopher's  sensitive  soul  most 
dreaded.  She  looked  at  him  several  times  ap- 
provingly, but  did  not  distress  him  with  questions. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  her  so  human  and  pleasant. 

It  seemed  to  Christopher  only  a  few  minutes  after 
his  first  glimpse  of  Miss  Grafton  that  he  was  lying  in 
great  peace  and  complete  satisfaction  in  a  hot  bath, 
with  the  window  of  the  room  wide  open  and  all  the 
delectable  sounds  of  the  summer  garden  entering  in 
his  ears.  How  much  better  than  an  inn  was  this 
great  house  with  its  glorious  garden  full  of  scents  and 
greenness  and  song  of  birds  ! 

When  he  had  made  his  very  simple  toilet  he  went 
to  his  tutor's  room  and  found  that  anxious  gentleman 
paying  enormous  attention  to  the  parting  of  his  thick 
hair.  They  arrived  in  the  morning-room  some  few 
minutes  before  eight  o'clock  and  found  both  Miss 
Grafton  and  Sir  Matthew  awaiting  them. 

Christopher  was  strangely  moved  by  the  sight  of 
his  uncle.  Sir  Matthew  gave  him  his  hand  with  some 
warmth,  accompanied  by  a  rough  laugh  of  amusement, 
and  studied  his  bearing  for  a  quick  moment  under 
eyebrows  which  twitched  more  than  ever.  Augustus 
expressed  gratitude  for  the  allowance  as  to  dress  made 
by  Miss  Grafton  and  Sir  Matthew  to  pedestrians.  Sir 
Matthew  seemed  to  think  it  a  diverting  matter  that 
people  should  walk  through  the  country;  he  quite 
laughed  once  or  twice  at  the  idea. 

Augustus  Nuttle  was  something  of  a  diplomatist, 
and  not  a  bad  judge  of  character.  Before  dinner  had 
proceeded  very  far  he  had  arrived  at  a  just  estimate 
of  Sir  Matthew's  temperament,  and  with  no  little 

234 


The   Harmless  Deception 

cunning  began  to  feed  the  great  man  with  observa- 
tions which  flattered  his  conceit.  Sir  Matthew  did 
not  unbend  to  the  plump  young  man  who  talked  too 
pompously  to  please  him,  but  he  held  forth  to  him 
with  a  freedom  which  surprised  Miss  Grafton  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table.  Augustus  was  thoroughly 
satisfied  by  the  impression  he  had  made. 

On  the  following  morning,  an  hour  before  luncheon, 
the  travellers  took  their  departure.  Christopher  had 
visited  all  the  favourite  haunts  of  his  childhood  and 
was  entranced  by  the  wonderful  summer  beauty  at 
Glevering.  He  departed  with  real  regret,  which  he 
did  not  attempt  to  disguise. 

"  You  must  come  again,  Christopher,"  said  his  aunt. 
"  We  shall  always  be  glad  to  see  you."  She  had  said 
nothing  about  his  mother  or  his  career. 

But  when  tutor  and  pupil  were  once  more  on  the 
road,  Nuttle  told  Christopher  that  he  was  certainly 
provided  for,  that  his  future  now  lay  straight  before 
him. 

"  Your  aunt  wishes  you  to  travel  abroad,  and  that  is 
also  the  wish  of  your  uncle,  who  is  a  very  sensible  man. 
They  have  been  kind  enough  to  suggest  that  I  should 
take  you.  For  the  present  they  do  not  wish  your 
mother  to  know  that  it  is  they  who  are  making 
provision  for  the  journey  ;  we  will  say  nothing  about 
it.  You  see,  Christopher,  if  your  mother  knew  that 
Miss  Grafton  was  paying  our  expenses,  she  would  be 
disposed  to  think,  perhaps — at  any  rate,  there  is  the 
risk  of  it — that  your  relations  in  Glevering  were 
attempting  to  purchase  a  reconciliation.  That  would 
never  do.  Your  mother's  love  is  too  precious  to  be 

235 


The  Shadow 

bought  by  any  one.  Miss  Grafton  nourishes  the  hope 
that  she  may  establish  the  old  friendship  on  better 
grounds.  So  we  will  say  nothing  about  this  visit,  nor 
yet  about  Miss  Grafton's  proposal  concerning  our  trip 
abroad." 

All  the  answer  Christopher  made  to  this  suggestion 
was,  "  But  my  mother  will  want  to  know  where  we 
got  the  money  from  !  " 

Mr.  Nuttle  brushed  aside  this  objection.  "  We  will 
allow  her  to  think  that  she  is  doing  it  all.  It  would 
be  most  cruel  to  come  between  mother  and  son  ;  Miss 
Grafton  feels  that ;  I  feel  it.  We  will  let  your  mother 
think  that  her  purse  is  paying  the  way.  I  shall  tell 
her  that  I  have  means  enough  of  my  own  for  the 
purpose,  and  I  shall  make  the  cost  of  your  travels  so 
light  that  it  will  not  be  a  burden  to  her.  She  will 
rejoice,  Christopher,  to  think  that  she  is  helping  you  ; 
and  we  shall  travel  like  princes." 

A  stronger  character,  a  nobler  nature,  than  Chris- 
topher's would  have  felt  the  dishonesty  of  this  proposal. 
But  to  Christopher,  whose  nature  was  lively,  vivid,  affec- 
tionate and  emotional,  rather  than  strong,  resolute,  and 
noble,  its  dishonesty  only  appeared  for  a  single  moment, 
and  vanished  quickly  as  an  unreasonable  scruple  in 
the  tremendous  impulse  of  his  being  towards  action 
and  experience.  He  longed  so  greatly  to  see  the 
world,  he  disliked  so  thoroughly  the  smoky  attic  in 
Trinity  Street,  and  he  was  so  unconvinced  of  the 
reasonableness  of  his  mother's  intense  piety,  that  it 
really  seemed  to  him  a  perfectly  just  and  honourable 
deception,  something  he  could  do  without  treachery  to 
his  love  for  her.  Think  !  The  opportunity  to  break 

236 


The   Harmless  Deception 

free  from  London,  to  escape  from  English  shores,  to 
see  Paris,  Dresden,  Florence,  Rome — perhaps  Athens, 
was  presented  to  this  ardent,  enthusiastic,  and  impulsive 
boy  as  something  quite  easy,  and  not  only  possible, 
but  actually  as  a  definite  affair  of  to-morrow!  His 
blood  was  on  fire  with  the  idea.  To  see  the  world, 
to  drink  deep  of  existence,  to  come  face  to  face  with 
the  life  of  men  and  women — what  an  inexhaustible 
delight !  He  was  young  ;  he  was  throbbing  with 
mental  energy  and  physical  force ;  the  world  pre- 
sented to  him  an  enchanted  kingdom ;  life  called 
him  with  a  syren  song  altogether  irresistible  ;  how 
could  he  stop  to  consider  whether  there  was  any 
possible  significance  in  his  mother's  strange  and  un- 
natural warning  that  the  world  could  not  satisfy  ?  If 
the  world  could  not  satisfy  him,  then  surely  the 
renunciations  and  inhibitions  of  religion  must  fail  to 
please ! 

He  accepted  the  tutorship  of  the  cunning  man  at 
his  side,  who  conscientiously  believed  that  in  counselling 
Christopher  to  deceive  his  mother  no  evil  was  done  and 
much  practical  good  might  ensue.  Christopher  said 
that  he  would  do  as  Nuttle  advised. 

"  When  shall  we  be  off  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mary  Grafton  had  found  an  emptiness  in  her  garret 
during  Christopher's  absence.  This  emptiness  op- 
pressed her.  The  room  became  the  shell  of  her 
former  contentment.  When  he  returned  from  the 
excursion,  bronzed  by  the  sun,  his  skin  shining  with 
health,  his  young  eyes  bright  with  excitement  and 
happiness,  the  room  overflowed  again  with  its  old 
satisfaction.  In  his  impetuous  embrace  she  realised 

237 


The  Shadow 

that  this  parting  had  been  worth  while  ;  reunion  was 
so  delicious. 

That  very  evening,  as  they  sat  together  in  the  attic 
after  tea,  with  the  old  hum  of  the  streets  rising  to  their 
ears  from  the  world  beneath  their  open  windows, 
Christopher  began  to  speak  of  Nuttle's  project  for  a 
tour  abroad.  He  spoke  so  enthusiastically  that  Mary 
was  carried  away.  He  had  made  her  so  indescribably 
happy  that  she  could  not  thwart  his  plans.  With 
everything  he  said  she  agreed,  smiling  into  his  eyes, 
stroking  his  hair,  holding  his  hand.  And  when  Chris- 
topher said  that  Nuttle  wanted  to  go  abroad  on  his 
own  account  and  would  pay  his  own  expenses,  Mary 
was  delighted,  and  said,  "  I  have  been  saving  up  to 
pay  for  both  of  you ;  now  you  will  be  able  to  stay 
longer ! " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  again  and  again, 
and  said,  "  How  good  you  are  to  me  !  I  want  to  go, 
mother,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  mine.  I  want  to 
succeed  that  I  may  be  able  to  look  after  you." 

She  was  quite  happy. 

They  sat  till  late  that  night  talking  of  the  future. 
Christopher  was  determined  to  succeed  as  a  painter. 
He  wanted  money,  he  said,  not  for  itself,  but  for  the 
power  it  would  give  him  to  make  his  mother  happy. 
They  must  always  live  together.  This  first  journey 
should  be  the  only  one  he  would  ever  take  without 
her.  They  would  go  to  foreign  countries  in  the  winter, 
and  return  to  England  in  the  spring  with  pockets  full 
of  money  for  all  the  poor  and  suffering  people  whom 
his  mother  loved  to  befriend.  They  would  have  a 
house  in  the  country,  and  she  should  be  happy  all  the 

238 


The  Harmless  Deception 

day  long — happy  in  the  right  way,  the  good  way. 
Christopher  was  perfectly  sure  about  that.  He  was 
not  ambitious,  or  covetous,  or  worldly.  He  loved  his 
mother  and  he  loved  his  art.  They  would  be  happy 
in  the  right  way. 

Before  the  day  of  departure,  Mary  saw  the  tutor 
alone.  She  was  very  quiet,  grave,  and  beautiful.  He 
never  forgot  to  the  end  of  his  life,  which  was  full  of 
strange  events,  that  brief  interview  with  the  mother  of 
Christopher.  She  said  to  him,  "  My  son's  soul  is  more 
precious  to  me  than  his  fame  or  his  success.  Will  you 
remember  that,  when  you  are  out  in  the  world  with 
him  ?  Will  you  shield  his  soul  from  temptations  to 
which  his  generous  nature  is  hastening  in  innocence 
and  ignorance  ?  Do  what  you  can  to  save  his  purity 
from  stain,  his  joy  and  hopefulness  from  disillusion- 
ment, and  his  heart  from  hardness  and  bitterness. 
Constantly  keep  before  him,  I  beg  you,  the  ideals  of 
our  religion — yours,  mine,  and  his." 

"  No  temptation  will  overcome  Christopher  ;  I  will 
remind  him  of  his  mother,"  replied  the  tutor. 

"  Remind  him  of  God,"  said  the  mother  very  gently. 
Mr.  Nuttle  began  to  pace  the  room. 
"  A  young  man,  Mrs.  Grafton,"  he  said  impressively, 
"  best  comes  to  a  knowledge  of  God  through  the  love 
of  a  good  mother.  Believe  me,  it  is  only  through 
those  sorrows  which  we  seek  to  spare  youth  that  the 
mature  man  and  the  mature  woman  reach  apprehen- 
sion of  God.  Life  is  growth  in  the  knowledge  of  God. 
No  child  can  grasp  on  the  threshold  of  existence  the 
immense  meaning  of  that  word.  Look  back  upon 
your  own  life  ;  is  your  idea  of  God  the  same  as  that 

239 


The  Shadow 

which  filled  your  mind  when  you  first  knelt  in  prayer  ? 
Let  your  heart  be  at  rest.  Do  not  hope  that  Chris- 
topher, in  the  heat  of  his  youth,  the  dawn  of  his 
manhood,  can  comprehend  the  fulness  of  the  spiritual 
life  as  you  comprehend  it,  as  the  saints  comprehended 
it.  The  spiritual  life  is  growth,  is  progression.  He  is 
safe  now  under  the  influence  of  your  love.  Let  that 
be  the  chief  force  in  his  soul,  till  he  is  old  enough  to 
look  from  the  earth  to  the  universe.  I  will  answer  for 
it  that  while  your  love  is  strong  in  his  soul  he  walks 
uprightly  and  remains  unspotted  by  the  world." 

Mary's  dark  eyes,  whose  unfathomable  depths  filled 
him  with  awe,  rested  upon  the  tutor  in  a  profound 
contemplation. 

"  No  soul  is  safe,"  she  said  slowly,  "  which  does  not 
perfectly  know  that  to  love  God  and  to  desire  spiritual 
perfection  is  the  reason  of  its  existence.  I  have  tried 
to  teach  my  child  that  truth  from  his  earliest  years. 
If  you  feel  that  it  is  true — and  it  is  the  soul  of  our 
religion — will  you  deepen  its  apprehension  in  his 
mind  ?  You  are  a  man  ;  you  have  an  intellectual 
influence  over  him  ;  he  is  fond  of  you.  Make  use  of 
these  responsibilities  to  convince  him  that  God  must 
be  all  in  all.  Do  not  think  that  I  want  him  only  to 
be  pure,  only  to  be  moral ;  I  want  him  to  adore  God, 
to  be  a  living  soul  more  conscious  of  immortality  than 
of  his  mother's  love." 

Mary  Grafton  made  a  profound  impression  on  the 
heart  and  mind  of  the  young  tutor.  He  felt  that  he 
had  been  in  the  presence  of  an  angel.  His  conscience 
upbraided  him  for  the  deceit  he  was  practising  on  this 
pure  and  gentle  nature.  For  some  little  time  he 

240 


The  Harmless  Deception 

seriously  debated  with  himself  whether  her  touching 
idealism,  with  its  complete  contempt  for  wealth  and 
ambition  and  its  entire  reliance  on  the  providence  of 
God,  was  not  the  noblest  way  of  life. 

But  the  tutor  was  an  intellectual  Christian,  a 
theologian,  a  philosopher,  rather  than  a  disciple  of  the 
Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life.  The  world  had  its 
attraction  for  him.  He  kept  his  religious  ideas  apart, 
and  spoke  of  "  the  hidden  life."  His  attitude  to 
eternity  was  an  aspiration  of  the  mind  ;  his  attitude 
to  humanity  the  philosophical  position  of  a  man  of 
the  world. 

Therefore,  while  he  determined  to  guard  the  soul  of 
Christopher  from  sin  and  evil,  he  came  to  the  satisfying 
conclusion  that  it  was  right  and  good  to  give  the  boy 
the  advantages  of  wealth  and  to  lead  him  towards  the 
destiny  prepared  for  him  by  his  powerful  relations. 
The  mother  thought  only  of  Heaven  ;  the  tutor  con- 
sidered Glevering. 

Mary  knew  that  she  had  now  reached  a  definite 
period  in  her  life.  The  childhood  of  Christopher  was 
passed.  The  page  must  be  turned  which  her  love  and 
her  prayers  had  inscribed  with  the  tenderest  intimacy 
of  maternity.  On  the  other  side  of  that  page  the  first 
word  to  be  written  was  Separation.  Her  child  was 
going  from  her.  The  separation  must  needs  be  spiritual 
as  well  as  physical.  Other  influences  and  fresh  stimuli 
would  touch  his  character.  He  would  see  a  new  world. 
He  would  exchange  innocence  for  knowledge.  He 
would  think  for  himself.  And  when  he  returned, 
though  he  came  back  pure  and  innocent  and  noble, 
it  would  not  be  with  the  same  eyes  that  he  answered 

241  R 


The  Shadow 

her  gaze,  not  with  the  same  kiss  that  he  greeted 
her. 

She  was  not  dejected  by  this  knowledge,  but  she 
contemplated  it  with  a  certain  sadness  of  heart  which 
deepened  as  the  day  of  departure  approached.  Not 
once  did  she  think  of  her  own  loneliness  in  the  eyry, 
of  the  desertion  she  would  feel  when  her  eaglet  had 
flown  away.  She  did  not  even  think  of  the  dangers 
to  which  Christopher  would  be  exposed  and  the 
change  which  must  overtake  his  character,  from  her 
point  of  view.  In  her  noble  soul  there  was  room  for 
only  one  thought,  the  soul  of  her  son  in  its  relation  to 
God. 

And  Christopher  ?  Did  he  once  think  of  the  deceit 
practised  upon  this  loving  heart,  of  the  knowledge  he 
was  hiding  from  her  of  the  secret  ambition  of  his  soul 
which  was  opposed  to  all  her  wishes  ?  Yes  ;  many 
times.  There  were  hours  when  the  poor  boy  was 
utterly  wretched  and  frightfully  tortured  by  his  con- 
science. He  wished  it  could  be  otherwise  ;  but  his 
wishes  were  not  that  he  should  share  his  mother's 
religious  attitude  towards  the  world,  but  that  she  could 
be  brought  to  see  with  his  eyes  the  glory  and  delight 
of  Glevering. 

There  was  one  powerful  salve  to  his  conscience — 
the  thought  implanted  in  his  mind  by  the  tutor  that  he 
was  destined  to  reconcile  his  father's  relations  with  his 
mother. 

But  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  excited  by  the 
journey  before  him,  he  could  not  sleep  ;  and  as  he  lay 
restlessly  in  his  bed,  the  memory  of  all  his  mother's 
love  woke  in  his  mind  with  the  most  vivid  reality.  It 

242 


The   Harmless  Deception 

was  on  this  bed  that  he  had  lain  at  the  gate  of  death ; 
she  had  nursed  him,  smoothed  his  pillow,  bathed  his 
burning  forehead,  comforted  and  assuaged  his  terrible 
anguish.  Could  he  ever  forget  that  love  ? 

Their  life  together,  from  the  dawn  of  consciousness 
on  the  prairie  to  this  hour  when  he  was  leaving  her 
with  a  lie  in  his  soul,  came  back  to  him  in  a  swift  pro- 
cession of  pictures.  He  saw  her  as  his  guardian  angel, 
always  working  for  him,  always  thinking  of  him, 
always  loving  him  with  a  divine  protecting  tender- 
ness. 

He  could  not  leave  her  with  a  lie. 

He  threw  back  the  clothes  to  go  to  her  room  and 
make  his  confession. 

As  he  crossed  the  floor  the  moonlight  fell  dimly 
upon  his  trunk,  lying  open  to  receive  its  last  contents 
on  the  morrow.  He  stopped  for  a  moment.  Then  it 
came  to  him  that  she  had  packed  it  with  her  own 
loving  hands,  and  the  thought  of  how  she  had  made 
all  these  preparations  for  his  happiness  and  comfort 
away  from  her  touched  his  heart  with  a  fresh 
contrition. 

He  went  forward. 

As  he  turned  the  handle  of  her  door  he  was  thinking 
of  the  money  she  had  saved  for  his  journey,  the  un- 
necessary sacrifice  she  had  made  for  his  ambition,  and 
the  deceit  with  which  he  had  accepted  that  sacrifice. 
Tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  and  he  felt  himself  the 
guiltiest  of  men. 

She  was  sleeping. 

It  was  dark  in  the  room,  and  he  only  knew  by  the 
sound  of  her  breathing  that  she  slept. 

243  R  2 


The  Shadow 

He  stood  half-way  between  the  door  and  the  bed, 
listening. 

As  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  gloom  he 
perceived  dimly  the  oval  of  her  face,  grey  against  the 
whiteness  of  the  pillow  and  shadowed  by  the  darkness 
of  her  hair.  There  was  a  noble  sternness  discernible 
in  the  expression  of  her  face,  a  look  which  filled  him 
with  awe.  She  seemed  infinitely  aloof  from  him. 
Through  the  tears  drying  in  his  eyes  he  looked  upon 
the  face  of  his  sleeping  mother  and  felt  afraid. 

A  breath  of  wind  rustled  the  blind,  and  the  rumble 
of  distant  wheels  came  to  his  ears.  She  sighed 
deeply,  murmured  words  which  he  could  not  hear, 
and  turned  her  face  towards  the  wall. 

For  a  moment  he  waited,  afraid  that  she  would 
wake.  Then,  very  quietly,  he  returned  to  the  other 
room. 

She  woke  as  he  closed  the  door,  and  raised  her 
head  from  the  pillow,  listening.  No  sound  came  to 
her.  She  lay  awake,  thinking  of  the  morrow. 

Later  she  rose  from  her  bed,  impelled  by  the 
sadness  in  her  heart  to  look  upon  Christopher  for  the 
last  time  in  his  child  sleep.  He  had  fallen  into  a 
slumber  as  she  opened  the  door. 

The  moonlight  fell  full  upon  his  beautiful  face  as 
she  stood  looking  down  upon  him.  It  was  the  face 
of  an  angel.  A  feeling  of  happiness  took  possession 
of  her.  God  would  guard  such  purity  and  keep  the 
splendid  spirit  true.  She  knelt  down  at  the  bedside, 
and  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  prayed  to  God 
with  happy  faith  in  her  heart. 

When  she  had  returned  to  her  room  she  could  not 
244 


The   Harmless  Deception 

sleep.  She  was  not  sad,  she  was  not  fearful.  The 
visit  to  the  sleeping  child  had  restored  all  her  con- 
fidence in  God's  protection.  But  sleep  deserted  her. 
She  lit  a  candle  and  began  to  read. 

The  book  which  she  had  chosen  was  one  of  curious 
anecdotes.  She  opened  it  at  random  and  glanced 
through  the  pages  without  much  attention.  After 
some  minutes  she  came  upon  the  following  story  : — 

When  Leonardo  da  Vinci  set  about  painting  "  The 
Last  Supper  "  on  the  wall  of  a  monastery  in  Milan,  he 
was  sore  troubled  to  find  a  perfectly  pure  and  sacred 
face  which  should  serve  him  as  study  for  the  counten- 
ance of  Christ.  At  last  he  discovered  a  boy  in  the 
choir  of  the  cathedral  so  beautiful,  so  tender,  and  so 
pure  that  no  better  study  for  the  divine  and  loving 
Saviour  could  have  been  found  upon  the  earth. 
When  the  central  figure  was  completed,  the  great 
artist  worked  contentedly  for  many  years  upon  his 
picture  till  he  came  to  another  standstill.  Nowhere 
could  he  find  a  model  base  enough  for  the  figure  of 
Judas.  After  some  search,  however,  he  discovered  a 
broken  and  degraded  creature  for  this  purpose.  On 
the  last  day,  when  he  was  dismissing  the  Judas  model, 
that  abandoned  and  wretched  man  said  to  him, 
"  Signer,  you  have  painted  me  before."  "  Indeed," 
answered  Leonardo,  "  and  where  was  that  ? "  "  In 
this  same  picture  on  the  wall,"  replied  the  man. 
Leonardo  looked  at  him  closely.  "  You  are  wrong," 
he  said ;  "  I  have  not  painted  you  here,  except  as 
Judas."  "  Yes,"  rejoined  the  other,  "  you  painted  me 
as  Christ."  The  horror  of  Leonardo  at  this  terrible 
discovery  cannot  be  told.  The  once  pure  and  beauti- 

245 


The  Shadow 

ful  boy  of  the  cathedral  choir,  falling  in  with  evil 
companions  at  Rome,  whither  he  had  gone  in  youth  to 
study  music,  had  become  first  a  victim  of  dissipation 
and  folly,  and  finally  of  shameless  vice  and  the  most 
terrible  crime.  Thus  did  Leonardo  learn  how  the 
world  may  corrupt  the  divinest  innocence  and  the 
most  beautiful  purity. 

Mary  Grafton  closed  the  book,  and  with  a  great 
horror  in  her  eyes  stared  straight  before  her.  She 
had  never  been  so  shocked,  so  shaken  in  her  life. 

Her  confidence  was  torn  away  from  her.  She  stood 
on  the  precipice,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  abyss. 
Christopher  was  going  into  danger.  The  world  was 
waiting  to  assault  his  soul.  The  contagion  of  the 
world  was  something  terrible  and  appalling.  Would 
his  innocence  stand  ?  Would  his  purity  survive  ? 

The  boy  whose  lovely  countenance  had  served  the 
painter  for  a  study  of  the  Christ  had  become  a  fitting 
study  for  the  traitorous  Judas.  A  mother's  prayers 
had  surely  guarded  that  child  in  youth.  He  was  pure 
till  he  broke  away  to  seek  art  in  a  distant  city,  beyond 
the  sheltering  love  and  protection  of  his  mother. 
From  maternal  love  to  the  world  ;  from  Christ  to 
Judas  !  Oh,  terrible,  awful ! 

She  slept  no  more  that  night.  Her  mind  was  too 
haunted  by  perilous  fears  to  pray  to  God.  She  lay 
tortured  by  a  waking  nightmare  of  the  world's  iniquity, 
dreaming  dark  dreams  of  Christopher's  ruin. 

In  the  morning  she  went  early  to  his  room,  the 
book  in  her  hand.  He  wakened  to  find  her  sitting  on 
the  side  of  the  bed.  He  embraced  her  with  impulsive 
love,  full  of  high  spirits  and  happiness. 

246 


The   Harmless  Deception 

She  gave  him  the  book  and  watched  him  as  he  read. 

"  How  dreadful,  how  horrible  1 "  he  exclaimed, 
looking  up  at  her,  and  closing  the  volume. 

"  Promise  me,  Christopher,"  she  said,  slowly  and 
sorrowfully,  "  to  pray  to  God  every  morning  and  every 
night  of  your  life,  and  to  remember  Him  in  every  hour 
of  your  day."  For  a  moment  she  paused.  Then  the 
terrible  anxiety  from  which  she  had  suffered  all  the 
night  broke  down  her  strength  ;  with  tears  standing 
in  her  eyes,  her  voice  troubled  by  broken  sobbings, 
she  took  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  uttered  words 
which  may  not  be  written. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother ! "  he  cried,  straining  her  to 
his  breast,  "  I  love  you  more  than  life  ;  a  thousand 
times  I  would  rather  die  than  touch  your  heart  with  a 
moment's  grief.  Do  not  be  afraid  for  me.  I  am  your 
son.  I  can  never  fall  into  sin.  We  shall  be  happy 
and  safe  together  all  the  days  of  our  life." 

"  Pray  to  God,"  she  whispered  earnestly  ;  "  promise 
me  ;  night  and  day  ;  never  forget — never  forget." 

"  I  will  pray  to  God,  night  and  day,  and  think  of 
you  every  minute  of  my  life,"  he  answered.  "  Oh, 
mother,  you  hurt  me  1  It  is  as  if  you  don't  know  how 
I  love  you." 

"Pray  to  God,"  she  whispered  again,  "pray  to  God." 


247 


CHAPTER   XVI. 
THE   TRIAL   OF    STRENGTH 

ISABEL  GRAFTON  was  following  a  definite  policy. 
1  She  had  an  object  in  life  which  obsessed  her 
thoughts.  To  breed  in  Christopher's  mind  a  weaken- 
ing criticism  of  his  mother,  gradually  and  carefully  to 
alienate  the  young  man's  affections  from  that  noble 
heart,  was  the  purpose  of  her  life. 

In  this  diabolical  intention  she  saw  nothing  evil. 
Her  conscience,  drilled  in  the  philosophy  of  what  is 
called  worldly  common  sense — which  is  the  con- 
temptuous antithesis  of  religion — never  reproached  her, 
never  hindered  her,  never  for  a  single  moment 
induced  her  to  hesitate  and  reflect.  The  advantages 
of  wealth  and  position  were  real  and  insistent  in  her 
mind ;  to  question  them  was  ludicrous ;  to  repudiate 
them  was  fanatical.  A  meek  and  lowly  spirit  was 
associated  in  her  philosophy  with  hypocrisy ;  a  heart 
whose  affections  were  set  on  things  above  amused  her 
as  a  solecism  ;  religion  was  something  which  gave 
up  the  ghost,  for  all  intelligent  people,  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  Mr.  Nuttle  might  have  quoted  of  this  lady  the 
line  in  Tacitus,  Corrumpere  et  corrumpi  seculum  vocatur  ; 
to  corrupt  others  and  be  oneself  corrupt  is  called  life. 

Untroubled  by  conscience,  and  perfectly  convinced 
that  she  was  seeking  the  rightful  happiness  of  her 

248 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

young  nephew,  this  astute  and  able  woman  of  the 
world  set  herself  to  win  the  heart  of  Christopher 
against  his  mother.  In  this  contest  the  advantages 
were  altogether  on  the  side  of  Glevering. 

To  begin  with,  Mary  Grafton  knew  nothing  of  the 
struggle.  She  was  in  the  position  of  a  city  unconscious 
of  an  enemy  drawing  near  to  invest  it.  Christopher 
had  placed  an  enormous  advantage  in  the  hands  of  his 
aunt  by  consenting  to  make  a  dupe  of  his  mother. 
Isabel,  on  the  other  hand,  was  waging  war  in  the  full 
light  of  day,  and  with  an  accomplice  in  the  citadel  she 
sought  to  beleaguer  who  was  himself  the  main  object 
of  her  dispositions. 

There  were  other  advantages.  Isabel  was  rich. 
To  Christopher,  whose  blood  was  hot  with  the  fire  of 
youth,  and  whose  soul  was  straining  at  the  leash  of 
penury  and  obstruction,  Isabel  appeared  in  the  light 
of  a  fairy  godmother  who  would  give  him  all  that  his 
heart  desired.  Her  philosophy  chimed  with  the  im- 
petuous mood  of  his  youth.  He  realised  the  pleasures 
and  delights  of  a  long  purse.  He  saw  joy  in  the 
world.  He  was  impatient  of  restraint.  The  idea  that 
one  must  deny  the  beautiful  world,  deny  one's  very 
self,  and  cultivate  some  mys'terious  and  peaceful  desire 
for  an  existence  after  death  which  was  invisible,  in- 
tangible, and  unknown,  struck  him  as  the  unreal 
delusion  of  an  imagination  broken  free  from  reason. 
His  soul  lived,  pulsed,  and  longed  in  his  senses. 

He  could  understand  the  philosophy  of  his  aunt , 
the  ideas  of  his  mother  troubled,  disturbed,  and  some- 
times irritated  his  mind. 

With  these  considerable  advantages  on  her  side 
249 


The  Shadow 

Isabel  pursued  her  diplomacy.  She  made  no  declara- 
tion of  her  purpose  to  Sir  Matthew,  and  only  showed 
herself  to  Augustus  Nuttle  in  the  guise  of  Chris- 
topher's patroness.  No  one  knew  the  purpose  to 
which  she  had  devoted  her  singular  powers  and  her 
tremendous  resolution.  Christopher  certainly  was 
wholly  unconscious  of  it. 

The  first  move  was  made  when  the  tutor  brought 
Christopher  to  Glevering ;  the  second,  when  Isabel 
sent  both  tutor  and  pupil  for  a  foreign  tour.  Isabel 
determined  that  this  second  move  should  establish  her 
advantage  and  make  the  way  clear  for  the  third.  Mr. 
Nuttle  was  provided  with  a  large  sum  of  money  and 
instructed  to  indulge  his  pupil  in  everything.  Chris- 
topher was  to  be  shown  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and 
the  glory  of  them.  His  eyes  were  to  be  dazzled. 
New  appetites  were  to  be  created  in  his  heart.  He 
was  to  break  the  apron-string  binding  him  to  his 
mother  and  become  a  man  of  the  world. 

Augustus  saw  that  Christopher  travelled  in  luxury. 
He  took  a  personal  pleasure  in  teaching  him  the  dis- 
crimination of  a  gourmet.  It  amused  him  to  lead  this 
unfledged  and  wondering  young  creature  into  the 
established  places  of  an  immemorial  luxury.  He 
would  sit  back  in  his  chair  after  dinner,  and  over  the 
curling  smoke  of  his  cigar,  watch  the  shining  eyes  and 
the  flushed  face  of  the  handsome  youth  who  stared 
about  him  with  a  half-troubled  and  all-excited  gaze. 
But  again  and  again  the  mind  of  the  amused  tutor, 
himself  revelling  for  the  first  time  since  his  thriving 
days,  in  the  comfort  of  a  full  purse,  would  be  haunted 
by  the  grave  eyes  of  the  boy's  mother,  and  he  would 

250 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

become  aware  of  her  voice  saying  to  his  soul, "  Remind 
him  of  God." 

The  tutor  was  subjected  to  temptation.  He  was 
not  a  devil  beguiling  a  young  man  towards  evil  which 
he  himself  despised.  He  was  a  weak  and  self-indulgent 
human  being,  powerfully  inclined  to  the  very  pleasures 
which  half-attracted  and  half-frightened  the  boy  for 
whose  character  he  was  responsible  to  the  mother. 
But  he  made  an  attempt  on  many  occasions  to  fulfil 
his  promise  to  Mary  Grafton.  He  would  speak  in  his 
large  manner,  with  a  flourish  of  words  and  his  cheeks 
puffed  out,  of  the  extinguished  pomp  and  vanished 
vanity  of  Babylon  and  Rome.  He  would  enlarge  on 
the  early  victory  of  Christianity  at  Antioch,  and  its 
gradual  spread  across  the  Western  world,  declaiming 
finely  of  the  perfumed  luxury  and  heated  voluptuous- 
ness which  had  withered  and  perished  under  the  pure 
breath  from  Galilean  hills. 

"  All  this  that  we  see  before  us  now,"  he  would  say, 
"  will  perish  and  pass  utterly  away.  It  is  but  the 
lifting  of  a  little  wave  in  the  vast  ocean  of  infinity ; 
the  striking  of  a  gilded  clock  in  the  immense  silence 
of  eternity.  '  Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God 
stand  sure.'  To  become  a  glutton  in  this  great 
universe,  to  forget  God  in  the  midst  of  eternity — 
what  a  madness!  Epicuri  de grege porcum — what  an 
epitaph." 

He  took  Christopher  to  Roman  Catholic  churches 
famous  for  their  music.  He  was  one  of  those  modern 
sentimentalists  in  religion,  who  regard  the  principles  of 
Protestantism  as  insular  and  local,  not  to  be  carried 
with  him  by  the  educated  Englishman  when  he  travels 

251 


The  Shadow 

into  Latin  countries.  Christopher,  therefore,  beheld 
his  tutor  posturing  in  all  manner  of  attitudes  and 
adopting  what  Bacon  calls  "  a  new  cringe "  at  every 
few  minutes  of  his  devotion.  And  these  things,  far 
from  counteracting  the  magnetic  forces  at  work  upon 
his  soul  from  the  world  of  sense,  only  induced  the  boy 
to  put  religion  more  and  more  out  of  his  mind  as 
something  to  which  he  was  evidently  by  nature 
antipathetic. 

However,  his  heart  was  pure,  and  his  delight  in  art 
was  now  so  great  that  the  common  sins  of  the 
common  world  had  really  little  power  over  his  senses. 
Augustus  felt  safe  and  self-satisfied  when  he  walked 
beside  Christopher  in  picture-galleries  and  museums, 
or  pointed  out  to  him  in  churches  and  cathedrals  the 
splendours  of  ecclesiastical  architecture.  The  boy 
responded  to  his  illuminating  discourse  on  these 
occasions  with  a  quick  and  vigorous  enthusiasm. 
There  was  nothing  whatever  in  his  nature  to  suggest 
a  hog  from  the  sty  of  Epicurus.  But  Augustus  forgot 
that  profound  saying  of  the  mother,  "  No  soul  is  safe 
which  does  not  perfectly  know  that  to  love  God  and 
to  desire  spiritual  perfection  is  the  reason  of  its  exist- 
ence." Also  he  failed  to  recall  the  admonition  and 
the  warning,  "  Do  not  think  that  I  want  him  only  to 
be  pure,  only  to  be  moral ;  I  want  him  to  adore  God." 
Christopher  returned  from  this  tour  strengthened 
and  confirmed  in  his  ambition.  To  Mary's  quiet  and 
comprehensive  gaze,  the  change  in  her  son  was  great 
and  decisive.  He  had  quite  ceased  to  be  a  child  ; 
there  was  not  a  vestige  left  of  his  playful  infancy ;  he 
was  a  man. 

252 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

She  accepted  this  change  without  grief  and  without 
regret  Her  great  hope  for  him,  that  he  should  enter 
the  service  of  the  Church,  a  hope  to  which  she  had 
clung  in  the  secrecy  of  her  soul  up  to  this  very  hour, 
perished  at  her  first  glance  of  him.  God  had  ordained 
otherwise.  She  had  nothing  to  do  but  submit. 

She  could  not  help  delighting  in  his  handsome 
appearance,  and  taking  pleasure  in  the  proud  intelli- 
gence which  showed  in  his  fine  eyes.  His  manner 
was  so  confident  and  pleasant  ;  his  voice  was  so 
musical  and  high-spirited  ;  it  was  natural  that  she 
should  feel  proud  of  her  son.  He  added  glory  to  the 
attic. 

A  week  after  his  return  he  surprised  her  by  saying 
that  he  wanted  to  go  on  another  walking  tour  with  his 
tutor.  She  had  hoped  that  he  was  glad  to  be  home, 
and  that  to  rest  with  her  in  their  eyry  was  a  delight 
to  him  after  the  fatigue  of  foreign  travel.  But  she 
did  not  frustrate  his  wishes. 

The  walking  tour  was  another  deception  practised 
on  this  pure  heart.  It  was  necessary  for  Christopher 
to  go  to  Glevering  and  express  gratitude  to  Miss 
Grafton  for  his  lordly  tour.  He  had  forgotten  to 
thank  his  mother  for  her  sacrifice. 

When  he  got  back  from  Glevering,  where  his 
appearance  delighted  both  his  uncle  and  aunt,  he 
found  that  his  mother  had  made  an  engagement  to  go 
with  him  to  the  Grindleys  for  supper. 

At  this  meal  his  affairs  were  brought  to  a  crisis. 
Old  Jack  thought  the  time  had  come  when  the  services 
of  Augustus  Nuttle  might  be  dispensed  with  ;  the  old 
gentleman  had  many  calls  on  his  purse,  and  the 

253 


The  Shadow 

education  of  Christopher  seemed  to  him  now  a  matter 
that  might  be  ruled  out  of  his  ledger.  He  questioned 
Christopher,  and  asked  him  what  he  intended  to  do 
with  his  life. 

"  It  is  time,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  you  began  to 
think  of  helping  your  mother." 

Christopher,  with  a  sinking  heart,  replied  that  he 
wished  to  be  an  artist.  Mr.  Grindley  drew  back  his 
eyelids,  rounded  his  mouth,  and  stared.  Art,  in  his 
mind,  was  a  hobby ;  something  for  young  people  to 
pursue  in  the  evening,  after  the  serious  duties  of 
the  day  had  been  performed.  Christopher  said  that 
while  he  was  in  Paris  he  had  made  inquiries,  and  that 
it  was  really  quite  possible  for  a  student  to  live  on  a 
few  francs  a  week.  The  old  gentleman  still  stared  at 
him. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mary,  "  that  I  can  manage  to 
provide  for  him.  He  was  quite  happy  on  his  tour 
with  the  little  that  I  could  give  him." 

Christopher  flushed  scarlet. 

When  they  were  back  in  the  eyry,  Mary  asked  him 
how  much  money  would  be  necessary  for  his  support 
in  Paris,  and  the  length  of  time  he  would  require  to 
study  there. 

He  said  quickly,  looking  away  from  her,  "  Wouldn't 
it  be  better  to  write  to  Aunt  Isabel  and  ask  her  to 
help  me." 

Mary  became  a  little  pale.  "  I  would  rather  help 
you  myself  if  I  can,"  she  said  quietly.  Then,,  after  a 
pause,  she  asked  gently,  "  Do  you  regret  Glevering, 
Christopher  ? " 

He  was  silent  for  some  time,  keeping  his  gaze 
254 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

averted.  "  I  wish,"  he  said  presently,  bringing  his 
eyes  to  her  face  for  a  swift  moment,  "  that  we  could 
manage  to  be  friends  with  them.  They  would  help 
you.  You  wouldn't  have  to  work  so  hard,  and  stint 
yourself  of  so  many  things.  And  I  could  have  four 
or  five  years'  study." 

She  became  quite  white.  "  Four  or  five  years  ? " 
she  asked. 

"  That  is  really  not  a  long  time  if  you  are  tre- 
mendously in  earnest." 

She  was  thinking  of  the  separation. 

"  But  if  you  can  live  economically,"  she  said  slowly, 
"  I  could  manage  to  give  you  the  money  without 
trouble.  Why  should  we  look  to  Glevering  ?  Don't 
you  feel  that  it  is  better  for  us  to  be  independent  of  all 
patronage  and  interference  ?  You  don't  want  a  life  of 
grandeur  and  luxury,  Christopher  ?  You  have  been 
quite  happy,  haven't  you,  with  your  mother  in  our 
little  eyry  ? " 

He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  working  so  hard  and 
living  so  poorly,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  reproached  my- 
self a  hundred  times  when  I  was  living  in  luxury 
abroad  and  enjoying  myself  like  a  prince." 

"  Living  in  luxury ! "  she  interrupted,  turning  to 
look  at  him. 

He  flushed  and  said,  "  Compared  to  this.  The 
smallest  hotel  is  quite  grand,"  he  added, "  compared 
with  our  garret."  Then,  growing  bold  in  the  midst  of 
his  sudden  discomfiture,  "  Mother,"  he  exclaimed, 
coming  close  to  her,  "  why  not  make  it  up  with 
Glevering  ?  They  can't  hurt  us  now.  They  can't 

255 


The  Shadow 

separate  us.  And  they  could  help  us  just  when  we 
need  it.  Think !  You  could  come  to  Paris  with  me. 
Wouldn't  that  be  fine !  We  could  live  together 
Why  not  make  it  up  ?  " 

She  took  his  hand.  "  They  could  hurt  us,"  she 
replied  quietly,  looking  up  at  him.  "  Do  you  know 
how  ?  By  drawing  our  thoughts  and  affections  away 
from  God.  All  temptation  lies  in  that,  Christopher. 
The  shadow  of  the  world  is  always  seeking  to  obtrude 
between  the  soul  and  God.  The  world  conquers  us 
whenever  we  attach  importance  to  earthly  satisfactions. 
It  breaks  the  central  communion  of  the  soul,  which 
cannot  live  without  the  calm  and  celestial  repose  of 
desire  for  God." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  You  find  it  difficult  to  think  that  this  is  true  ? " 
she  inquired  gently.  "  It  is,  nevertheless,  the  testi- 
mony of  all  history.  Human  life  is  incomplete  with- 
out the  longing  after  immortality  and  the  complete 
reliance  on  the  love  of  God,  which  is  religion.  To 
compromise  between  time  and  eternity  is  to  make 
shipwreck  of  our  peace.  The  more  we  are  detached 
from  the  world,  the  deeper,  the  profounder,  is  our 
repose.  Believe  that  this  is  true  ;  not  because  I  say 
it,  not  because  I  know  it,  but  because  it  is  the  written 
wisdom  of  all  the  ages ;  above  everything  else, 
because  it  is  the  illumination  of  the  sweet  Saviour 
whom  we  call  Light  of  the  World." 

He  said  that  he  believed,  kissing  her  forehead  ;  but 
added,  kneeling  at  her  side  and  stroking  her  hands 
with  a  son's  caresses,  "  One  need  not  live  without 
religion,  mother  dear,  because  one  takes  advantage  of 

256 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

the  help  of  relations.  The  Grindleys  have  helped  us  ; 
that  hasn't  interfered  with  our  religion.  Why  should 
the  help  of  Aunt  Isabel  be  different  ?  " 

"  Because  her  soul  is  different.  Her  help  would 
not  be  given  in  the  spirit  of  Christ,  but  with  a  base 
object  in  view — the  perversion  of  your  soul.  Do  not 
think  that  sin  comes  to  us  in  theatrical  dress,  with  in- 
famy written  on  its  brow ;  it  comes  often  with  pleasant- 
ness and  kindness,  and  chiefly  in  the  smallest  things 
of  life — for  character  is  corrupted  more  by  trivial  habits 
and  thoughts  which  appear  insignificant,  than  by  great 
and  striking  events  in  our  life.  That  is  what  I  have 
endeavoured  to  teach  you  from  childhood.  Religion 
is  an  attitude  of  the  soul  towards  God ;  it  is  a  character. 
Very  easily  is  that  attitude  changed,  and  that  character 
altered,  by  the  smallest  compromise  with  the  world, 
the  least  adjustment  of  our  opinion  to  the  standards  of 
the  world.  It  is  because  I  want  you  to  set  your  whole 
affections  upon  God,  and  to  love  Him  with  all  the 
force  and  energy  of  your  being,  despising  every 
temporal  vanity,  that  I  have  laboured  to  keep  you 
clear  of  the  destructive  influence  of  Glevering.  Do 
not  undo  my  work  ;  do  not  throw  my  love  aside  ; 
stand  superior  to  all  the  allurements  of  money  and 
pride,  and  yield  yourself  utterly  to  the  love  of  God." 

Christopher,  troubled  in  his  conscience,  and  dis- 
tracted by  the  difficult  pass  in  his  affairs,  carried  the 
matter  to  his  tutor.  Mr.  Nuttle  set  his  mind  at  rest. 
He  had  already  discussed  this  business  with  Mr. 
Grindley. 

"  I  told  him,"  said  Augustus,  "  that  I  knew  people 
in  Paris  who  would  look  after  you  for  next  to  nothing, 

257  s 


in  exchange  for  lessons  in  English — a  harmless  tarra- 
diddle  which  you  can  tell  your  mother,  not  to  deceive 
her — for  your  purpose  is  not  evil — but  to  save  her 
from  pecuniary  sacrifices  and  mental  anxiety.  Miss 
Grafton,  you  understand,  will  arrange  matters  through 
me.  I  cease  to  be  your  tutor.  I  remain  your  friend. 
I  shall  tell  your  mother,  what  I  have  already  told  the 
Grindleys,  that  my  circumstances  are  easy  and  that 
I  intend  to  devote  a  considerable  part  of  my  leisure 
to  looking  after  you  in  Paris.  I  shall  be  your  frequent 
visitor.  As  for  pocket-money,  you  will  have  ample. 
Your  mother  will  feel  that  as  you  are  earning  your 
board  and  lodging  by  teaching  English,  the  few  shil- 
lings she  can  send  you,  without  distress  to  herself, 
will  suffice  for  all  your  needs.  Save  those  shillings, 
Christopher ;  do  not  spend  one  of  them  ;  and  when 
the  great  and  happy  day  arrives  for  you  to  reconcile 
your  mother  and  your  father's  relations,  give  them 
back  with  kisses  and  with  tears  to  the  mother  who  will 
adore  you  the  more  for  your  victory  and  fame.  She 
will  never  reproach  you.  Pia  mater  phis  quam  se 
sapere,  et  -virtutibus  esse  priorem  vult.  The  end  of 
her  love  will  be  greater  than  the  beginning." 

Exactly  as  the  wisdom  and  diplomacy  of  Mr.  Nuttle 
decided  was  this  matter  of  Christopher's  apprentice- 
ship to  art  concluded  between  mother  and  son.  He 
told  her  that  he  could  support  himself  in  Paris. 

What  were  his  feelings  when  he  told  her  the  lie  ? 
He  was  young,  he  was  innocent,  he  was  good  and 
wholesome.  Yet  he  could  look  into  those  loving  eyes, 
which  were  lit  by  the  purest  fires  of  devotion,  and 
utter  words  chosen  and  purposed  to  deceive  her.  He 

258 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

knew  her  mind — that  she  desired  him  to  stand  free 
from  Glevering,  that  all  her  laborious  days,  all  her 
sacrifices,  and  all  her  innumerable  stintings  of  self, 
had  but  this  one  object  for  their  end.  Yet  he  could 
put  himself  under  the  protection  of  Glevering,  look 
into  his  mother's  eyes,  and  utterly  deceive  her  love. 

His  heart  smote  him  while  he  spoke.  When  her 
face  lighted  and  she  took  his  hand  and  said  that  she 
was  pleased,  he  trembled  for  a  moment  on  the  edge  of 
confession.  But  the  poison,  long  planted  in  his  mind, 
exerted  its  power  and  opposed  this  sudden  impulse 
of  a  generous  heart.  He  told  himself  that  the  lie 
was  uttered  for  his  mother's  sake. 

The  parting  was  terrible  for  the  mother.  Night 
after  night  she  had  dreamed  of  the  Christ  and  the 
Judas  in  Leonardo's  picture.  Her  days  were  haunted 
by  the  fear  that  her  son  who  was  going  from  her  in 
the  flush  of  his  youth,  so  good  to  look  upon,  so  pure 
and  noble  and  generous  within,  would  return  with  the 
marks  of  the  world  upon  his  face  and  the  bitterness 
of  knowledge  in  his  heart. 

She' had  seen  the  transition  from  child  to  man.  Was 
it  God's  will  that  she  should  see  the  awful  transition 
from  innocence  to  guilt  ? 

He  was  conscious  of  this  terrible  anxiety  in  her 
heart.  He  dreaded  a  scene.  A  conversation  earnest 
and  direct  frightened  and  dismayed  him.  He  struggled 
to  keep  their  intimacy  during  these  last  days  on  a 
light  and  cheerful  ground.  He  made  himself  very 
busy,  went  often  to  the  British  Museum,  read  hard  at 
French  on  his  return,  and  got  Augustus  to  come  in  of 
an  evening. 

259  S  2 


The  Shadow 

He  found  it  necessary,  the  nearer  the  day  of  his 
departure  approached,  to  avoid  his  mother's  eyes. 

She  never  intruded  her  anxiety  upon  his  excited 
mind.  She  was  busy  with  his  wardrobe  in  her  spare 
time ;  she  entered  into  his  gay  moods  at  meals ;  she 
gave  herself  with  pleasure  to  helping  him  in  his 
French. 

Only  on  his  last  night  in  the  eyry  did  she  speak 
to  his  soul,  and  that  very  simply,  quietly,  and  but  for 
a  moment.  She  brought  him  the  little  book  of  quota- 
tions from  Fenelon  which  had  comforted  and  helped 
her  in  so  many  difficult  hours  of  her  life,  and  asked 
him  to  take  it  with  him  to  Paris. 

"  I  think  that  all  I  would  say  to  you,"  she  con- 
cluded, opening  the  worn  volume,  "is  expressed  in 
these  simple  words :  '  Good  intentions  will  avail  you 
but  little,  and  your  piety  (however  sincere)  will  only 
reproach  and  torment  you,  unless  God  is  the  rock  of 
your  confidence,  and  the  resting-place  of  your  hopes.' 
To  part  with  you.  Christopher,"  closing  the  little  book 
and  giving  it  into  his  hand,  "  is  not  easy  for  me.  It 
can  only  be  tolerable  if  I  know  that  when  I  am  praying 
night  and  day,  you  too  are  praying  to  the  same  God 
with  the  same  desires  in  your  heart.  That  is  our 
agreement.  We  will  pray  together.  Every  morning, 
and  every  night.  You  will  not  forget,  you  will  never 
miss,  will  you  ?  I  think  if  you  did  I  should  be  aware 
of  it,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
"  No  soul,  dear  son,  is  safe  against  the  world  that 
does  not  continually  desire  the  presence  of  God." 

This  was  the  only  solemn  moment  in  their  parting. 
On  the  morrow,  in  the  midst  of  the  last  hurrying 

260 


The  Trial  of  Strength 

preparations  for  departure,  came  Augustus  Nuttle  to 
take  the  student  away. 

Mrs.  Grindley  had  given  Christopher  a  pair  of 
"  military  hair-brushes "  ;  Old  Jack  had  slipped  into 
his  hand  a  couple  of  sovereigns ;  poor  old  Miss  Maffey 
had  brought  him  a  cardboard  bookmarker  worked  by 
her  own  hands  with  blue  and  scarlet  wool ;  the  clergy- 
man in  charge  of  the  mission  had  given  him  Pere 
Gratry's  Henri  Perreyve  ;  and  the  two  old  pensioners, 
the  one  paralysed  and  the  other  blind,  had  sent  him, 
by  the  hand  of  Mary,  a  dozen  cotton  handkerchiefs 
tied  up  with  pink  ribbon.  And  now  came  Augustus 
with  a  little  packet  neatly  enfolded  in  finest  tissue 
paper.  It  was  a  silver  cigarette  case  with  Christopher's 
monogram  in  the  centre. 

"  He  is  old  enough,"  said  Augustus,  with  amusing 
seriousness,  "  to  acquire  the  great  and  saving  habit  of 
tobacco.  I  wish  I  could  quote  Horace  on  the  subject. 
Unfortunately  that  great  man  lived  before  this  bene- 
ficent discovery." 

Mary  felt  a  certain  coldness  at  her  heart.  The  words, 
"  He  is  old  enough,"  frightened  her  more  than  the  gift, 
which  seemed  to  be  an  outward  sign  of  his  masculine 
independence.  Alas,  old  enough  to  acquire  what  other 
habits ! — old  enough  to  learn  how  many  new  ways,  how 
many  fresh  desires  ?  She  realised  that  he  was  going, 
not  only  out  into  the  world,  but  definitely  away  from  her. 

Their  farewells  were  taken  in  the  room.  She  held 
him  quietly  in  her  arms,  let  her  lips  rest  for  a  moment 
on  his  brow  while  she  breathed  a  silent  prayer  to  God, 
and  then,  drawing  back  her  head  a  little,  she  looked 
into  his  eyes,  which  were  still  innocent  and  pure. 

261 


CHAPTER   XVII. 
ALARM 

CHRISTOPHER  had  been  nearly  two  years  in 
w  Paris,  with  only  the  briefest  and  most  occasional 
visits  to  London,  when  the  collector  of  jungle 
produce  and  Annabel  his  kind-hearted  wife  came  to 
stay  with  the  Grindleys  in  Merrick  Square. 

They  had  been  in  Germany,  on  some  business  of 
Mauritius',  and  had  come  through  Paris,  where  they 
had  spent  a  day  or  two  with  Christopher.  When 
the  first  cheerful  greetings  were  over  in  Merrick 
Square,  and  high  tea  had  come  and  gone  and  con- 
versation had  settled  down  into  a  pleasant  course  of 
gossip,  Mauritius  suddenly  exclaimed  : 

"  And  now  tell  me  about  Christopher  Columbus  ? 
Has  Glevering  relented,  and  has  the  right  honourable 
baronet  stuffed  the  boy's  purse  with  doubloons  and 
moidores  ?  Tell  me  about  that." 

Mrs.  Grindley  lifted  her  hands  and  Old  Jack  drew 
back  his  eyelids.  Neither  of  them  spoke. 

"  He  seems  to  have  plenty  of  money,"  said  Annabel, 
glancing  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other,  "  and  to  be 
living  a  little  extravagantly.  Of  course  we  did  not 
ask  him  any  questions.  We  thought  it  would  be 
indelicate  and  unwise." 

"  I  also  thought,"  laughed  Mauritius,  "  that  it  would 
262 


Alarm 

put  Master  Reynard  on  his  guard  against  us — make 
him  wary  and  induce  him  to  draw  in  his  horns." 

"  We  let  him  entertain  us  and  made  as  though 
we  observed  nothing,"  added  Annabel. 

Mrs.  Grindley  turned  from  looking  anxiously  first 
at  Annabel  and  then  at  Mauritius,  to  rest  a  helpless 
and  questioning  gaze  on  her  husband's  face. 

"We  don't  mean  for  a  minute,"  said  Annabel, 
"that  the  handsome  boy  is  wicked  or  foolish  or 
reckless." 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Mauritius. 

"  It's  only  that  he  does  seem  to  have  a  lot  of 
money  and  to  know  a  great  many  high-spirited  young 
fellows.  You  understand  what  we  mean,  aunt  ? " 

"  He  must  sow  his  wild  oats  like  every  one  else," 
laughed  Mauritius.  "The  boy  is  doing  well.  He's 
working  like  a  nigger — one  of  the  worst  workers  in 
the  world,  by  the  way — where  did  that  ridiculous 
notion  come  from  ?  No,  Christopher  Columbus  is 
not  in  danger.  He'll  do.  I  prophesy  that  one  day 
he  will  be  a  famous  man.  But,  my  word,  he  seems 
to  have  more  twenty-franc  pieces  to  throw  about  than 
is  altogether  safe  for  a  handsome  young  fellow  with 
a  captivating  manner." 

"Jack  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Grindley,  "what  does  it 
mean  ? " 

Mr.  Grindley  was  puffing  faster  than  usual  at  his 
long  pipe,  one  arm  extended,  a  trembling  finger  at 
the  end  of  this  arm  fidgeting  and  pressing  at  the 
grey  ashes  in  the  bowl.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  fireplace.  Every  now  and  then  his  knees  worked 
and  his  crossed  slippers  gave  a  slight  jerk. 

263 


The  Shadow 

No  answer  could  be  got  out  of  the  old  gentleman. 
He  shook  his  head  when  they  asked  him  what  it 
meant.  He  let  them  glance  away  to  other  subjects, 
and  sat  in  his  grandfather  chair,  gaping  at  the  fire, 
silent  and  thoughtful,  his  knees  twitching,  his  finger 
fidgeting  at  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

Quite  late  in  the  evening,  when  they  were  talking 
about  something  else,  Old  Jack  got  laboriously  out 
of  his  chair,  stumped  to  his  tobacco-jar  on  the  side- 
board, and  said,  "  Ask  Nuttle." 

It  was  agreed  that  this  should  be  done,  and  that 
not  a  hint  of  any  kind  should  be  given  to  Mary, 
who  did  not  yet  know  that  her  friends  were  in 
England. 

Mr.  Nuttle  came  to  breakfast  on  the  following 
morning,  and  explained  matters  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion. He  said  that  Christopher  had  no  doubt  let 
himself  go,  being  a  generous  nature,  on  the  occasion 
of  a  visit  from  such  old  and  devoted  friends  as  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Mauritius  Smith.  Perhaps  he  had  borrowed 
a  little  money  for  the  festivities,  and  would  have  to 
live  close  in  order  to  repay  it.  Augustus  would  see 
to  that  when  he  next  visited  Paris.  But,  in  any 
case,  Christopher  was  extremely  popular  among  the 
people  with  whom  he  lived,  and  he  was  really 
earning  quite  a  comfortable  living  by  his  lessons  in 
English.  There  was  not  the  slightest  cause,  Mr. 
Nuttle  assured  the  company,  for  a  moment's  anxiety. 

Old  Jack  rose  from  the  breakfast  table  to  go  to 
the  city.  Mrs.  Grindley  fetched  his  muffler  and  old- 
fashioned  tall  hat,  while  Jenny  put  on  his  highlows 
and  fastened  the  laces  as  he  sat  in  the  hall. 

264 


Alarm 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Jack  dear?"  asked 
Mrs.  Grindley. 

"I  think,"  said  Old  Jack,  "that  some  of  those 
twenty- franc  pieces  ought  to  have  found  their  way 
to  his  mother."  It  was  this  thought  which  had 
kept  the  old  gentleman  sleepless  for  an  hour  and 
more  overnight,  and  with  which  he  had  waked  in 
the  morning. 

Soon  after  breakfast  Annabel  hastened  across  the 
road  to  Trinity  Street,  longing  to  embrace  Mary,  for 
whom  her  affection  was  deepened  by  this  new  mis- 
giving concerning  Christopher.  She  had  quite  made 
up  her  mind  to  speak  hopefully  and  cheerfully  of 
the  young  student,  certainly  to  utter  not  a  single 
word  which  would  distress  the  faithful  mother's  heart 
with  anxiety. 

Mary  was  deeply  delighted  to  see  her  kind  and 
loving  friend.  She  embraced  her  with  warmth  and 
caressing  tenderness.  Annabel  brought  joy  into  the 
loneliness  of  her  attic,  where  she  now  lived  very  near 
to  the  line  of  hunger,  for  the  sake  of  Christopher, 
whose  absence  had  become  a  deprivation  and  a  sorrow 
inexpressibly  painful  and  desolate. 

But  when  Annabel  exclaimed,  with  twinkling  brown 
eyes  and  smiling  lips,  "  I  have  got  news  for  you,  my 
dear ;  a  surprise !  I  bring  you  a  greeting,  and  who 
do  you  think  it  is  from  ? — from  Christopher ! — we 
have  seen  him  ! "  when  she  said  this,  Mary's  eyes 
flashed  with  eagerness,  she  took  the  little  woman 
again  into  her  arms,  and  cried  out,  "  Oh,  tell  me,  tell 
me !  This  is  too  good  to  be  true." 

She  was  glad  to  see  Annabel  for  her  own  kind 
265 


The  Shadow 

sake,  but  to  see  her  as  one  who  had  lately  come 
from  the  presence  of  Christopher,  from  the  sight  of 
his  eyes,  the  touch  of  his  hand,  the  sound  of  his 
voice — this  was  a  greater  joy  than  she  had  imagined. 

For  Mary  had  longed  often  and  very  earnestly 
for  some  woman  to  come  and  tell  her  about  Chris- 
topher, some  good  woman  who  would  regard  him 
from  her  own  point  of  contemplation,  and  observe 
changes  in  him,  small  but  significant.  The  reports 
of  Augustus  Nuttle  were  the  views  of  a  man — a 
man  of  the  world,  too,  who  would  see  nothing  of 
subtle  changes  in  the  boy,  and  who  would  count  it 
a  good  and  hopeful  thing  to  see  the  young  man 
approximating  to  his  own  easy  and  tolerant  ideas 
of  human  life.  They  had  meant  nothing  to  Mary 
beyond  the  satisfaction  of  Christopher's  messages  and 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  well. 

Annabel  was  a  woman,  and  a  good  woman.  She 
would  have  everything  to  say  which  Mary  most 
desired  to  know.  Very  eagerly,  then,  did  the  poor 
mother  take  this  kind  friend  by  the  hand,  lead  her  to 
a  seat,  and  still  holding  her  hand  as  she  sat  beside 
her,  ask  question  after  question  concerning  her  son. 

For  a  long  time  Annabel  answered  cheerfully 
enough.  As  the  questions  became  more  intimate, 
however,  she  began  to  fence.  Finally,  under  the 
pressure  of  searching  and  brave  questions,  and  under 
the  influence  of  Mary's  compelling  eyes,  she  began 
to  hint  a  vague  and  shadowy  anxiety. 

She  spoke  of  Christopher's  good  looks,  his  popularity, 
his  high  spirits.  She  said  that  one  did  not  want 
him  to  be  tame  and  spiritless.  A  boy  with  a  generous 

266 


Alarm 

and  impulsive  nature  like  Christopher   must  express 
himself  in  a  gallant  and  vigorous  manner. 

Mary  listened  with  her  disconcerting  grave  eyes, 
which  were  full  of  profound  spirituality,  searching 
the  face  of  her  friend. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked  very  quietly,  "  that  he 
is  inclined  to  riot  ? " 

Annabel,  looking  away  from  Mary,  laughed  at 
this  idea. 

Mary  said,  interrupting  her,  and  gently  stroking 
her  hand,  "If  you  had  known  his  father  you  would 
understand  his  danger,  and  you  would  not  leave  me 
in  ignorance." 

Annabel  was  struck  dumb. 

She  searched  the  eyes  of  the  mother  and  wondered 
what  story,  what  tragedy,  lay  behind  those  terrible 
words,  "If  you  had  known  his  father  you  would 
understand  his  danger." 

It  came  to  her  that  to  deceive  Mary  would  be 
a  crime. 

She  dare  not,  however,  utter  all  her  fears. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,"  said  the  mother. 

Annabel  looked  into  her  eyes.  She  was  still  under 
the  shock  of  those  words,  "  If  you  had  known  his 
father,"  still  wondering  what  frightful  narrative  of 
suffering  and  misery  they  abridged  with  such  signifi- 
cant brevity.  Mary  had  suffered,  then,  from  some- 
thing sharper  than  poverty ;  Christopher  carried  in 
his  veins  the  heritage  of  some  iniquity  which  had 
overshadowed  his  mother's  life ;  what  could  she  say, 
what  could  she  do  ? — to  be  silent,  to  sit  actionless 
in  the  face  of  this  danger,  was  a  crime. 

267 


The  Shadow 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,"  said  the  mother,  and  caressed 
her  hand. 

Then  Annabel  said,  "  I  do  not  think  for  one 
moment,  my  dear,  that  Christopher  has  done  anything 
of  which  you  would  disapprove.  I  believe  he  is 
thoroughly  good  and  noble.  But  there  is  a  risk. 
I  will  tell  you  in  secret,  but  say  nothing  to  anybody 
else,  to  my  uncle  and  aunt,  to  Mauritius,  or  to 
Mr.  Nuttle.  You  are  sensible  as  well  as  good,  brave 
as  well  as  loving.  And  there  is  no  cause  for  hurry 
or  excitement  Christopher,  my  dear,  appears  to 
have  more  money  than  he  actually  needs  ;  he  seems 
to  be  surrounded  by  poorer  students  who  seem  to 
sponge  upon  him  ;  he  does  nothing  wrong ;  he  is 
temperate  ;  he  is  the  same  loving  and  high-spirited 
boy  as  before,  but  his  very  generosity  to  his  friends, 
who  seem  much  poorer  than  himself,  leads  him  into 
extravagance  which  is  perhaps  not  very  good  for 
him,  particularly  if  he  has  inherited  any  tendency  to 
wildness  and  pleasure." 

Mary's  face  did  not  pale.  Her  eyes  did  not  close. 
All  the  time  Annabel  was  speaking  she  held  her 
friend's  hand,  occasionally  stroking  it,  and  kept  her 
gaze  upon  Annabel's  face.  But  there  was  such  anguish 
in  her  heart  as  cannot  be  told,  such  agony  of  despair 
as  cannot  be  written,  for  she  felt  that  this  news  had 
come  too  late,  that  her  son  had  chosen,  and  that 
nothing  could  turn  him  back. 

Annabel  leaned  forward,  placed  her  free  hand  upon 
Mary's  shoulder,  and  kissed  her  brow.  It  was  cold  as 
marble. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  she  said  gently,  "  that  you  cannot  live 
268 


Alarm 

with  him  in  Paris.  If  you  were  there,  always  at  his 
side,  there  would  be  no  danger." 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  Annabel  said  ;  "  your  in- 
fluence always  near  would  prevent  any  risk.", 

Again  Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  But  he  loves  you  so  dearly.  You  should  have 
seen  how  his  face  lighted  up  when  he  spoke  about 
you.  And  he  is  preparing  a  surprise  for  you,  taking 
such  pride  in  it  He  loves  you,  my  dear,  better  than 
anything  else  on  the  earth.  If  you  could  manage  to 
live  with  him  over  there  I  am  sure  it  would  prevent 
the  slightest  risk  of  his  making  unwise  friendships  or 
forming  dangerous  habits." 

Mary  said,  "  If  he  loved  me,  he  would  love  God. 
And  if  he  loved  God  he  would  be  safe." 

Annabel  was  shocked.  "My  dear,"  she  said  re- 
proachfully, "  do  you  doubt  his  love  for  you  ?" 

Mary's  eyes  did  not  waver.  "  The  love  which  I 
have  tried  to  create  in  his  heart  is  not  there.  I  love 
him,  but  he  does  not  love  me." 

"  Can  you  say  that  ?     It  is  terrible." 

"  I  can  say  it.     It  is  true." 

"  That  he  does  not  love  you  ?  " 

"  No,  he  does  not  love  me." 

There  was  such  final  and  absolute  conviction  in 
these  words  that  Annabel  was  shaken  and  abashed. 

Mary  looked  gently  at  her,  and  said,  "This  is 
nothing  new,  my  dear  friend.  I  have  known  from 
the  first  dawn  of  his  youth  that  he  does  not  give  me 
the  whole  of  his  heart,  which  is  love.  You  have  not 
brought  me  to  this  discovery.  I  am  not  dejected. 

269 


The  Shadow 

Do  not  reproach  yourself ;  and  do  not  think  that  my 
love  is  exacting  and  unjust  I  shall  seek  to  make  him 
love  me  all  the  days  of  my  life.  Do  you  know  how  I 
wish  him  to  love  me  ?  I  wish  him  to  love  me  in  a 
perfect  communion  of  our  spirits.  He  may  have 
different  desires,  different  habits,  and  different  am- 
bitions from  me  ;  our  earthly  ways  may  be  entirely 
different  ;  but  the  poise  of  his  spirit  must  be  one  with 
mine — it  must  be  directed  towards  God.  Only  that 
will  content  me.  He  must  feel  with  me  that  nothing 
on  this  earth,  neither  its  glories,  its  ambitions,  nor  its 
rewards,  can  be  compared  with  the  things  of  God. 
Until  he  feels  that,  his  affection  for  me  is  not  love, 
and  his  soul  is  in  danger.  Think  a  moment,  and 
you  will  see.  Is  not  the  heart  of  love  self-sacrifice  ? 
If  I  asked  him  to  give  up  the  world,  to  give  up 
his  art,  and  to  devote  himself  to  helping  the  poor 
and  suffering  for  Christ's  sake,  do  you  think  he 
would  gladly  and  willingly  make  the  sacrifice  ?  No, 
my  friend,  he  is  dear  to  me  beyond  all  expression 
of  language,  but  he  does  not  love  me.  And  he  is 
in  danger.  The  soul  incapable  of  apprehending  that 
in  comparison  with  God  all  the  lures  of  the  world 
are  as  dust,  is  not  safe.  Its  progression  is  towards 
the  animal." 

Annabel  could  say  nothing  to  this.  There  are  some 
moments  in  our  life,  when  a  spirit  nobler  than  our  own 
reveals  to  us  glimpses  of  those  pure  and  distant  heights 
of  being  which  exist  for  most  of  us  only  as  impossible 
hopes  and  shadows  of  our  dreams.  We  see  those 
luminous  heights  clear  and  distinct,  shining  in  a 
celestial  radiance,  lifting  their  lofty  summits  high  above 

270 


Alarm 

the  fret  and  fever  of  the  world  ;  and  for  that  brief  and 
flashing  moment  of  illumination,  we  are  ourselves  trans- 
figured. We  behold  the  spiritual  life.  We  are  conscious 
of  immortality. 

For  a  moment  Annabel's  good  and  kindly  and 
tolerant  nature  was  caught  up  into  the  sphere  of  spirit 
and  saw  the  everlasting  truth  of  things. 

The  love  of  Mary  for  her  son  did  not  seem  to  her, 
then,  a  demand  extravagant  and  non-natural.  She 
realised  that  this  quiet  woman,  with  the  grave  eyes 
and  the  melodious  low  voice,  saw  human  life  with  a 
truer  vision  than  the  soul  who  compromises  between 
God  and  Mammon.  For  one  moment,  brief,  sudden, 
inexpressible,  but  tremendously  convincing,  she  felt 
the  majesty  of  the  religious  life  and  the  unutterable 
content  of  that  great  word — immortality.  The  division 
of  humanity  became  plain  to  her.  She  saw  with  large 
eyes  the  immemorial  contest  between  good  and  evil. 
The  hosts  of  God  and  the  hosts  of  Mammon  were 
those  who  believe  in  death  and  those  who  believe  in 
immortality. 

She  was  dazed  in  the  midst  of  her  illumination  by 
the  thought  that  vast  numbers  of  the  human  race 
believe  in  death.  They  must,  or  their  lives  would  be 
different.  It  was  a  new  thought  to  her.  She  had 
not  before  contemplated  the  great  truth,  that  those 
who  live  to  the  world  believe  in  death.  The  confession 
of  faith  of  the  world  is  Credo,  Mors — that,  and  no 
other.  To  believe  in  one's  extinction,  one's  annihila- 
tion, one's  swift  approaching  and  irresistible  blotting 
out  of  thought,  feeling,  consciousness — how  terrible 
how  godless !  But  not  to  believe  in  death  is  to 

271 


The  Shadow 

believe  in  immortality ;  and  she  saw — this  was  her 
illumination  which  made  Mary's  love  a  reasonable  and 
inevitable  passion  in  her  eyes — she  saw  that  to  believe 
in  immortality  is  to  lose  susceptibility  to  the  blandish- 
ments and  beguilements  of  the  world,  is  to  be  good 
and  pure  and  wholly  spiritual.  Really  to  believe  in 
immortality,  really  and  profoundly  to  believe  that  the 
soul  is  a  traveller  through  eternity,  destined  for  the 
everlasting  and  unutterable  satisfactions  of  divine  love, 
is  to  be  sublimely  immune  from  the  little  enticements 
of  terrestrial  existence,  let  and  hindered  as  it  is  on 
every  side  by  the  limitations  of  an  animal  body. 
Yes ;  she  saw,  for  that  brief  moment  of  illumination, 
the  impulse,  the  inspiration,  the  surety  of  knowledge 
which  creates  out  of  common  humanity  such  Christlike 
souls  as  the  disciple  of  Assisi. 

But  the  light  flashed  and  withdrew.  The  greyness 
of  the  attic  returned.  She  heard  again  the  noise  of  the 
street.  She  saw  the  human  eyes  of  her  friend.  She 
felt  the  obsession  of  the  world  investing  her  mind 
with  material  reality.  Shades  of  the  prison  house 
began  to  close  upon  her  radiant  soul.  Not  only  did 
she  herself  lose  sight  of  that  immortal  sea  which 
brought  us  hither,  and  cease  to  hear  its  mighty  waters 
rolling  evermore,  but  in  the  obsession  of  material  reality 
which  gives  such  conceit  to  the  powers  of  our  human 
senses,  she  truly  felt  that  Mary  inhabited  a  world  of 
delusion  and  that  she  could  justly  say  of  her,  See  but 
life  as  it  really  is,  and — 

"  Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,    and  unfixed  thy  powers, 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made." 
272 


AND    NOW   CAME    AUGUSTUS    WITH    A    LITTLE    PACKET   NEATLY 
ENFOLDED    IN    FINEST   TISSUE    PAPER. 


Alarm 

Yes,  see  life  as  it  truly  is,  poor  dreamer,  and  all  your 
golden  unsubstantial  dream  would 

"  Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours." 

"  I  think,"  she  said  in  her  kindest  and  gentlest  tone, 
"  that  I  understand  what  you  mean.  But  I  must  say, 
and  I  only  say  it  because  I  hope  it  may  help  you,  that 
your  love  for  Christopher  does  seem  to  me  a  little 
exacting.  Do  you  not  forget,  perhaps,  the  difference 
of  his  sex,  and  the  difference  of  his  age  ?  And  then, 
too,  you  must  remember,  dear,  that  not  all  of  us  feel 
so  certain  of  the  next  world  as  you  do.  For  most  of 
us,  particularly  when  we  are  very  young  and  the  world 
seems  so  very  delightful  to  our  fresh  senses,  any  other 
life  must  appear  shadowy  and  problematical.  It  is 
more  a  possibility  than  a  certainty.  With  a  great 
many  religious  people,  I  really  think  it  is  more  a  hope 
than  a  definite  conviction.  As  Tennyson  says,  and  as 
I  think  so  beautifully — 

'  We  have  but  faith  ;    we  cannot  know, 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see.' 

Christopher  must  be  given  time  to  develop  and  grow. 
He  has  perhaps  lost  something  of  the  faith  of  his 
childhood,  but  that  happens  to  all  vigorous  and  eager 
minds  in  youth  ;  it  does  not  mean  that  he  will  remain 
where  he  is ;  he  is  good,  he  is  affectionate,  he  is 
generous,  give  him  time  and  he  will  grow  in  knowledge 
and  come  nearer  to  you  with  every  year.  I  am  sure 
of  it." 

Mary  said  in  answer  to  this  comfort,  "  I  cannot 
explain." 

She  knew  why  it  was  that  she  could  not  make  her 
273  T 


The  Shadow 

friend  understand.  Annabel  was  not  a  mother.  To 
only  a  father  or  a  mother  is  the  divine  knowledge 
really  possible  of  the  fulness  of  love.  Annabel  could 
never  know  in  what  manner  Mary  loved  her  son. 

"If  you  loved  someone  with  deep  affection,"  Mary 
said  slowly,  "  would  you  be  content  with  a  mechanical 
response  ?     You  would  surely  desire  the  answer  of  the 
heart.     Is  not  that  the  chief  part  of  Christ's  revelation 
concerning  our  love  towards  God?     I  think  it  is  His 
wonderful  insistence  on  spiritual  love,  spiritual  truth, 
and  His  condemnation  of  formal  service  and  mechanical 
devotion,    which   most    satisfies   us   in   contemplating 
His  character,  which  most  lifts  Christianity  above  all 
other  religions  and  marks  it  as  divine.     It  satisfied  the 
Pharisees  that  a  man  did   not  steal,  did  not  commit 
murder.     Christ  shook  their  religion  to  the  dust   by 
saying  that  a  man  who  does  not  sin,  but  who  desires 
to  sin,  is   equally  guilty  with   him  who  does.     That 
lifts  morality  into  the  region  of  religion.     Religion  is 
an  answering  love  to  the  love  of  God.     And  so  I  face 
the  truth.      My  son's  love  for  me  is  the  mechanical 
affection  of  morality  ;  it  is  not  the  spiritual  affection  of 
religion.    My  love  would  be  unworthy  if  it  was  satisfied 
with  what  he  gives  me  now.     Such  love  as  he  gives 
me  he  owes  me;  it  is  my  right,  my  due,;  to  withhold 
it  from  me,  not  to  be  conscious  of  it,  would  make  him 
a  monster.     But  I  desire  to  be  loved  in  another  way." 
Annabel  repeated  her  conviction  that  Christopher's 
love  would  grow  and  develop  with  his  character. 

"  You  must  not  think  me  unreasonable  and  exacting," 
Mary  answered,  with  a  sudden  tenderness  which  had 
something  in  it  of  Christopher's  own  impulsiveness. 

274 


Alarm 

I  think  I  know  how  he  feels  towards  the  world.  I 
think  I  can  understand  what  it  is  to  be  a  young  man. 
I  think  I  can  realise  his  temptations.  But  the  differ- 
ences of  sex  and  age  do  not  affect  the  direction  of  a 
character,  and  all  my  anxiety  for  him  is  summed  up 
there — the  direction  of  his  character.  A  hundred 
times  I  think  about  him  very  happily,  yearn  towards 
him  with  simple  delight  in  his  pleasantness,  and  love 
him  with  a  very  hunger  of  heart  and  soul  which  is 
without  anxiety.  But  always  a  voice  asks  in  my  ear, 
Whither  ?  He  is  loving,  generous,  charming,  and 
good  ;  but  whither  is  he  travelling,  what  is  the  direction 
of  his  soul  ?  That  question  keeps  my  love  awake. 
My  sleepless  love  must  be  tortured  until  I  know  in  my 
soul  that  his  face  is  set — where  ?  Towards  the  morning 
light.  Every  hour  that  he  lives,  facing  as  he  is  now, 
he  is  advancing  towards  the  night.  Can  I  be  satisfied  ? 
Can  I  be  without  anxiety  ? " 

Annabel  still  struggled  to  convert  this  superb  solici- 
tude of  motherhood  into  the  tolerant  optimism  which 
satisfies  most  people's  idea  of  their  duty  towards  their 
neighbour.  She  did  not  realise  the  reasonableness  of 
Mary's  anxiety  until  finally  the  mother  told  her  the 
story  of  the  Christ  and  the  Judas  in  Leonardo's  "  Last 
Supper."  Then  she  said  : 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  told  you  what  I  think  of  Chris- 
topher. Go  to  him,  my  dear.  I  think  you  ought  to 
be  at  his  side." 

"  That  is  impossible." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  I  must  earn  my  living." 

"  But " 

275  T    2 


The  Shadow 

"Yes?" 

"  Christopher  appears  to  have  plenty  of  money." 

Mary  started. 

"  He  earns  money,"  Annabel  said,  "  by  teaching 
English.  You  might  surely  do  the  same." 

For  the  first  time  Mary  reflected  on  the  strange 
knowledge  that  Christopher  had  means.  In  the 
beginning  of  this  interview  she  had  heard  something 
about  money,  but  the  word  had  passed,  the  significance 
had  escaped  her,  she  had  been  occupied  by  a  greater 
matter. 

Now  the  full  meaning  struck  her  mind,  and  filled 
her  with  a  fresh  horror. 

She  had  hoarded  her  poor  pence  to  send  to  her  son  ; 
his  letters  had  always  expressed  a  gratitude  for  these 
remittances,  which  implied  a  rigid  economy  and  a 
devoted  ascetism  on  his  own  part.  Whence  came  the 
means  for  prodigality  ? 

A  dreadful  terror  possessed  her.  How  could  he 
possibly  have  money  ?  The  thought  grew  in  perplexity 
and  horror. 

It  was  not  only  that  he  deceived  her,  not  only  that 
he  took  her  money  apparently  to  squander  it,  but  that 
he  made  money  in  some  way  which  he  dared  not 
tell  her. 

What  way  was  that  ?  To  what  iniquity  had  he 
stooped  his  soul  ? 

She  endeavoured  to  mask  her  anxiety  from  the 
scrutinising  sympathy  of  Annabel,  but  Annabel 
perceived  it  clearly  enough,  and  was  full  of  remorse 
for  having  sown  the  seeds  of  such  terrible  disquiet  in 
the  mother's  heart. 

276 


When  she  returned  to  Merrick  Square  this  feeling 
of  remorse  deepened.  She  was  haunted  by  it,  and 
frightened.  She  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Grindley,  but 
when  Mauritius  returned  from  a  busy  day  in  the  City 
she  told  him  what  she  had  done  and  expressed  her 
anxiety. 

He  made  light  of  her  misgiving. 

On  the  following  morning,  however,  Annabel  woke 
with  this  fear  strong  in  her  heart.  Again  the  Collector 
attempted  to  ridicule  her  anxiety. 

"  Do  you  think  for  a  single  moment,"  he  asked, 
"that  Mrs.  Grafton  is  the  woman  to  take  poison  or 
throw  herself  over  London  Bridge  ?  " 

"  Let  us  go  round  and  see  her,"  said  Annabel. 

They  went  together.  Miss  Maffey  opened  the  door 
on  the  chain,  and  Mauritius  got  behind  his  wife  to 
prevent  a  second  panic  on  the  landlady's  part. 
Annabel  advanced  to  the  narrow  opening  and  asked 
for  Mary.  Miss  Maffey's  eyes  and  nose  came  round 
the  corner  ;  then  the  door  closed,  the  chain  scratched 
in  the  socket,  and  once  again  the  door  opened. 

Miss  Maffey  stood  on  the  mat,  drawing  her  shawl 
closer  about  her  concave  chest,  her  thin  nose  growing 
visibly  bluer  in  the  morning  air.  She  looked  like  some 
strange  prehistoric  bird,  miserable  in  the  knowledge  of 
its  anachronism. 

Annabel  inquired  again  for  Mary. 

"  Gone,"  said  Miss  Maffey  abruptly. 

"  Gone,"  said  Annabel,  laying  her  hand  suddenly 
upon  the  arm  of  Mauritius  and  feeling  terribly  guilty. 

"  To  Paris,"  said  Miss  Maffey. 


277 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 
THE   RISK 

was  one  chief  defect  in  the  character  of 
1  Christopher  Grafton.  He  lacked  that  highest 
courage  which  is  the  inexorable  and  determined 
valour  of  a  virtuous  nature.  His  gentle  disposition 
made  him  conciliatory  where  he  should  have  been 
relentless.  His  extreme  degree  of  sensitiveness  caused 
him  to  shrink  from  giving  pain,  where  to  wound,  and 
to  wound  deeply,  would  have  been  an  act  of  mercy. 
Because  he  was  tolerant,  he  was  pliant. 

To  say  that  he  courted  popularity  and  made  him- 
self all  things  to  all  men,  from  the  vainest  and  meanest 
of  motives,  would  be  not  only  to  traduce  and  utterly 
misrepresent  his  character,  but  to  miss  the  secret  of 
his  spiritual  contest.  He  did  perhaps  sometimes 
think  pleasantly  of  his  popularity,  and,  as  a  boy  will, 
be  glad  with  himself  that  other  people  liked  him, 
sought  him  out,  and  quite  openly  admired  him.  But 
this  was  not  his  danger.  His  character,  his  destiny, 
his  soul,  hung  in  the  balance  of  peril  because  the 
gentleness  and  conciliatoriness  of  his  lovable  nature 
made  him  accommodating  in  situations  where  resolute 
opposition  was  demanded  of  a  virtuous  nature.  He 
shrank  from  controverting  opinions  which  he  knew  to 
be  evil,  not  because  he  was  inclined  to  their  evil,  but 

278 


The  Risk 

because  to  dispute  them  seemed  to  him  invidious,  and 
to  denounce  them  seemed  to  him  the  action  of  self- 
righteousness.  He  did  not  want  to  preach.  The  r61e 
of  moralist  offended  him.  The  great  virtue  of  modesty 
entered  into  and  informed  his  vice. 

Mary  Grafton,  with  that  profound  perception  which 
is  the  property  of  a  perfectly  spiritual  nature,  knew 
that  the  root-danger  of  this  amiable  quality  lay  in  the 
poise  of  his  soul,  or,  as  she  said,  in  the  direction  of 
his  spiritual  life.  For  this  easy  tolerance,  this  gentle 
charity,  this  unassuming  and  sensitive  modesty  was 
dangerous,  and  only  dangerous,  because  the  direction 
of  his  soul  was  not  absolute.  It  was  because  the 
direction  of  his  character  was  not  determined,  that 
his  tolerance  became  pliancy,  and  his  charity  weakness. 

It  was  this  knowledge  which  had  made  her  say, 
"  No  soul  is  safe  which  does  not  perfectly  know 
that  to  love  God  and  to  desire  spiritual  perfection  is 
the  reason  of  its  existence."  The  shining  illumination 
of  her  soul  lay  in  that  knowledge. 

Before  her  eyes  had  grown  the  example  of  this 
spiritual  law.  There  was  nothing  in  Christopher's 
character  which  might  not  have  been  a  grace  if  the 
direction  of  his  soul  had  been  absolutely  towards  God. 
And,  because  he  lacked  that  absolute  direction,  there 
was  nothing  in  his  character  which  was  not  loaded 
with  peril.  His  very  vices  became  virtues  in  the 
religious  sphere ;  and  his  very  virtues  became  vices  in 
the  sphere  of  worldly  compromise. 

This  profound  truth  is  little  apprehended,  and  yet 
the  vast  library  of  religious  experience  testifies  to  its 
universality.  Character  is  what  it  is,  solely  by  reason 

279 


The   Shadow 

of  the  life's  objective.  A  soul  determined  to  goodness 
and  inspired  in  all  its  activities  by  the  inspiration  of 
immortality  may  possess  and  may  convert  into  the 
most  potent  forms  of  grace  those  very  characteristics 
and  qualities  which  are  a  cardinal  source  of  failure 
and  distress  in  a  soul  conscious  of  no  definitive 
objective.  The  touchstone  of  character  is  the  ancient 
and  most  rational  demand,  Quo  vadis? — Whither 
goest  thou  ? 

To  Christopher,  whose  blood  was  hot  in  his  veins, 
and  whose  childlike  faith  acquired  at  his  mother's  knee 
had  gradually  and  unconsciously  become  philosophised 
by  the  theology  of  his  tutor,  life  had  no  clear  and 
certain  end,  and  his  own  particular  existence  was 
without  seriousness  or  importance.  He  was  satisfied 
in  the  religious  sphere  by  those  interesting  speculations 
concerning  the  Creator  of  the  universe  which  have 
been  at  all  periods  of  the  world's  history  a  source  of 
delight  to  curious  minds.  He  was  interested  in  the 
question  of  a  God.  As  for  any  close  and  permanent 
experience  of  God's  power,  as  for  any  consciousness  of 
need  of  divine  love,  he  was  a  stranger  to  it,  it  had  not 
occurred  in  his  life.  The  immense  miracle  of  the 
Christian  religion,  which  fills  the  historian  with  rever- 
ence and  awe,  was  for  this  happy  and  impulsive  youth 
only  a  very  beautiful  and  sensuous  idea,  something 
which  inhabited  rather  the  region  of  art  than  the 
kingdom  of  conduct.  His  life,  as  a  totality,  was  adrift 
on  the  ocean  of  chance.  He  carried  no  chart  ;  he  was 
careless  of  a  destination. 

When  he  arrived  in  Paris  and  found  himself  his  own 
master,  he  was  conscious  before  everything  else  of  the 

280 


The  Risk 

joy  of  freedom.  He  loved  his  mother,  but  in  some 
subtle  way  she  restricted  him.  A  thousand  times  he 
reproached  himself  for  being  glad  that  he  was  free. 
These  fits  of  emotionalism,  which  might  have  been  so 
forceful  if  his  soul  had  been  consciously  directed, 
passed  without  effect  upon  his  character.  His  mother 
became  to  him  very  much  what  religion  was  to  him, 
an  occasional  and  most  tender  aspiration,  but  not  a 
controlling  and  sanctifying  force.  He  threw  himself 
heart  and  soul  into  the  life  surrounding  him. 

What  was  that  life  ? 

There  are  as  many  minds  among  the  art  students 
of  Paris  as  among  the  mass  of  mankind.  There  are 
religious  minds,  moral  minds,  vulgar  minds,  and  animal 
minds.  But  there  is  one  unifying  principle  among 
them.  They  are  serious  as  regards  art.  For  them 
Art  is  the  passion  and  reason  of  existence.  They  are 
devoted  disciples.  And  this  devotion  makes  for  a 
certain  oneness  among  these  divergent  minds.  The 
religious  student  makes  an  art  of  his  religion,  the 
moral  student  makes  an  art  of  his  morality,  and  the 
sensual  student  makes  an  art  of  his  animalism.  It  is 
here,  as  elsewhere,  for  the  principle  is  universal,  a 
question  of  poise,  a  question  of  the  soul's  direction. 

Christopher  found  himself  among  men  with  whom 
he  could  perfectly  sympathise.  At  first  he  was  horribly 
shocked  by  the  vices  of  the  worst,  and  somewhat 
stunned  by  the  aberrations  of  the  religious.  His 
wholesome  common  sense  prevented  him  from  falling 
a  victim  both  to  the  sins  of  the  base  and  to  the 
extravagance  of  the  sensuously  religious.  But  these 
first  feelings  of  shock  and  surprise  melted  under  the 

281 


The   Shadow 

persuasive  geniality  of  the  brotherhood.  He  became 
every  day  more  tolerant.  If  he  stood  every  day  freer 
from  their  influence  over  his  opinions  and  actions 
every  day  he  grew  more  sympathetic  to  the  spirit  of 
his  companions.  The  joy  of  life,  the  freedom  of  the 
senses,  the  delights  of  experience,  the  passionate 
clamour  of  the  feelings — these  things  began  to  stir 
and  move  within  his  soul.  He  was  in  love  with  life, 
and  the  ambitions  of  his  art  satisfied  every  faculty 
of  his  being. 

His  handsome  appearance,  his  really  considerable 
talents,  and  his  charming  ingenuousness  soon  made 
him  a  favourite  in  the  brotherhood.  He  was  popular 
for  himself.  Then  came  the  added  popularity  of  his 
purse.  His  relations  at  Glevering  kept  him  supplied 
with  money,  and  his  generous  nature  led  him  into 
prodigal  liberality.  He  lived  himself  almost  as  simply 
as  he  had  done  in  the  eyry,  and  this  economy  enabled 
him  to  practise  a  hospitality  towards  his  poorer  friends 
which,  in  their  eyes,  was  wonderfully  lavish.  Among 
such  hungry  and  struggling  youths  he  was  something 
of  a  Mecaenas.  He  gave  dinners  at  some  of  the  best 
Bohemian  restaurants  ;  played  host  at  the  opera,  the 
theatre,  and  the  music-hall ;  and  organised  excursions 
into  the  country.  He  was  never  what  a  moralist  would 
call  wicked,  but  he  was  never  serious.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  inexact  to  describe  his  mind  at  this  time 
as  flippant,  but  there  was  nevertheless  the  tone  of  flip- 
pancy in  his  high  spirits  and  his  joyous  irresponsi- 
bility. 

The  occasional  remorse  as  touching  his  mother,  to 
which  we  have  already  referred,  operated  in  his  mind 

282 


The  Risk 

with  greater  sharpness  as  he  yielded  more  and  more 
to  the  spirit  of  his  companions.  Sometimes  returning 
from  a  music-hall  and  a  supper,  where  he  had  been 
the  gayest  of  his  set,  he  would  find  himself,  in  the 
solitude  of  his  lodging,  plunged  suddenly  into  an  abyss 
of  emotional  repentance.  Out  of  these  moods  there 
grew  an  ambition.  He  would  paint  for  his  mother  a 
Madonna  that  should  gain  the  applause  of  Paris.  This 
picture  should  silence  his  conscience,  should  give  ex- 
pression to  his  love,  should  be  the  one  great  serious 
note  in  his  extravagant  existence. 

He  found  a  model  who  inspired  him  with  something 
of  his  mother's  nobility.  He  bought  the  finest  hood 
and  robe  that  he  could  find  for  his  purpose.  The 
greatest  hours  of  his  day  were  devoted  to  painting 
this  picture.  When  he  was  at  work  on  this  idea  he 
was  supremely  happy,  and,  in  an  emotional  way,  in- 
tensely affectionate  towards  his  mother.  It  was  the 
excuse  for  his  life.  As  it  neared  completion  he  was 
filled  with  a  haunting  sense  of  deprivation.  He  could 
have  wished  it  to  last  until  his  wild  life  was  over  for 
ever. 

It  chanced,  on  the  very  day  when  Annabel  was 
expressing  to  Mary  her  anxiety  about  Christopher, 
that  four  or  five  of  his  friends,  wishing  to  make  their 
Mecaenas  some  return  for  his  generosity,  proposed  to 
him  at  their  dejeuner  in  a  restaurant  a  visit  that  night 
to  a  fancy-dress  ball. 

Christopher  laughingly  refused  the  invitation.  His 
friends  used  their  utmost  persuasiveness.  Christopher 
shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  not  a  dancing  man,"  he  said  rather  weakly. 
283 


The  Shadow 

At  this  they  laughed,  and  Christopher  flushed 
uncomfortably. 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  dance,"  they  said  with 
amusement  ;  "  and  until  you  have  seen  the  ball  you 
do  not  know  Paris." 

But  Christopher  said  "  No,"  and  in  spite  of  all  their 
earnest  entreaties  returned  to  his  work. 

That  night  he  dined  with  two  of  these  friends. 
Their  invitation  was  repeated  early  in  the  dinner. 
Although  Christopher  still  refused,  his  disinclination 
to  go  had  weakened  by  the  conclusion  of  the  meal. 
They  told  so  many  droll  stories  of  this  ball,  they  made 
it  so  great  and  cosmopolitan  an  event,  they  caused 
him  so  convincingly  to  feel  that  his  experience  of 
life  would  be  provincially  incomplete  if  he  did  not 
attend,  that  his  "  No "  at  the  end  of  the  dinner  was 
infinitely  less  negative  than  his  "  No "  at  the  end  of 
the  ctijeuner. 

Still,  he  did  refuse  to  go.  To  atone  in  some  way 
for  this  refusal,  not  wishing  to  hurt  the  feelings  of 
his  friends,  he  sat  late  over  the  table  and  unconsci- 
ously drank  much  wine. 

Neverthless,  his  resolution  held  good.  He  parted 
with  his  friends  and  returned  to  his  studio. 

He  had  been  there  a  matter  of  two  hours,  vainly 
trying  to  concentrate  his  attention  on  reading,  and 
had  just  tossed  aside  his  book  and  begun  an  impulsive 
letter  to  his  mother,  when  the  door  of  the  room  burst 
open  and  the  party  of  his  friends  bound  for  the  ball 
entered  with  hilarious  laughter,  dressed  in  the  eccentric 
costumes  demanded  by  the  occasion. 

They  thronged  about  Christopher,  imploring  him 
284 


The  Risk 

to  come.  He  laughed  and  refused.  They  took  his 
hands,  knelt,  kissed  them,  and  prayed  him  to  come. 
One  of  them  had  a  bottle  in  his  hand  ;  he  poured  out 
a  glass  and  presented  it  to  Christopher.  He  laughed 
good-naturedly,  provided  the  intruders  with  cigarettes, 
and  drank  the  liquor.  Still  he  refused. 

They  became  urgent.  No  excuse  was  accepted. 
Some  were  offended  by  his  refusal,  others  were 
pathetic  in  their  appeals.  He  was  surrounded  by 
these  clamorous  "  good-fellows."  He  was  one  against 
seven. 

Christopher  knew  not  what  to  say  to  these  friends. 
At  first  he  was  wretched.  Then  he  began  to  frame 
excuses  for  them.  They  seemed  so  kind  and  generous 
and  good-hearted.  After  all,  what  a  prig  he  was 
to  stand  out  against  these  seven  jolly  fellows.  The 
wine  he  had  just  drunk,  the  mood  of  restlessness 
which  had  driven  him  to  begin  the  letter  to  his 
mother,  the  gaiety  into  which  the  fantastical  costumes 
of  these  happy  friends  had  thrown  him,  actuated  in 
his  mind  towards  compliance.  After  all,  what  was 
the  harm  ? 

"  I  can't  come,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Why,  my  dear 
fellows,  I've  got  nothing  to  wear." 

"  We'll  get  you  something." 

"  You  shall  go  as  Apollo." 

"Apollo!     Nonsense.     He  shall  go  as " 

"Ha!  I  have  it,"  cried  another.  "Look  here! 
To  our  very  hand  ! " 

He  held  up  the  hood  and  robe  which  served  for 
the  model  of  Christopher's  picture  for  his  mother. 


285 


The  Shadow 

On  the  following  morning  Mary  Grafton  arrived 
in  Paris.  She  reached  the  Gare  du  Nord  just  before 
six  o'clock.  It  was  raining  and  the  air  struck  with  a 
sharp  coldness.  There  was  something  mournful  and 
depressing  in  the  aspect  of  the  city,  but  she  was 
unconscious  of  this  effect,  unconscious  even  that  she 
was  tired  after  a  sleepless  night  in  the  train. 

She  had  very  often  dreamed  in  her  childhood,  and 
in  the  first  dawn  of  her  womanhood,  of  this  great 
capital  city  of  her  forefathers.  She  knew  French 
history,  French  literature,  and  had  treasured  books 
with  pictures  of  castles  in  the  Loire  valley,  amazingly 
beautiful  cathedrals,  and  the  chief  buildings  of  Paris. 
It  had  often  been  a  wonder  to  her  how  she  should 
greet  this  dear  and  unvisited  fatherland,  by  what 
power  of  the  mind  she  would  be  able  to  restrain 
the  emotion  of  her  heart. 

Now  at  last  she  was  actually  in  Paris  itself.  For 
the  first  time  she  was  home  and  among  her  own 
people.  But  there  was  neither  excitement  nor  joy 
in  her  heart.  She  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the 
numbing  dread  which  had  possessed  her  from  the 
first  moment  of  her  departure. 

She  was  so  habituated  to  economy  that  even  in 
this  strange  and  bewildering  city  she  did  not  think 
of  taking  a  cab.  She  inquired  of  a  porter  the  route 
to  Christopher's  lodging,  and  learned  from  this  man, 
who  was  amused  by  her  antique  Canadian  French, 
how  she  could  cross  Paris  by  the  omnibus  drawn  up 
in  the  rain  outside  the  courtyard  of  the  station. 

She  made  her  way  across  the  brown  puddles 
which  were  jumping  with  spots  of  rain,  and  found 

286 


The  Risk 

that  the  omnibus  was  already  full.  She  waited  under 
a  streaming  umbrella,  with  her  little  canvas  bag  in  her 
hand,  for  the  next  omnibus.  From  the  people  crowded 
on  the  pavement  came  the  smell  of  wet  clothes.  She 
was  not  aware  that  the  cold  and  damp  of  the  stones 
penetrated  her  thin  boots. 

It  was  after  half-past  six  when  she  entered  the  long, 
old-fashioned,  ramshackle  omnibus,  with  its  driver 
high  up  in  the  air  over  three  horses  abreast.  The 
boulevards  were  now  crowded  with  a  moving  pro- 
cession of  drenched  umbrellas.  Shopkeepers  and 
restaurateurs  were  beginning  to  open  their  premises. 
The  roadside  kiosks  exhibited  coloured  pictures  and 
newspapers  which  were  spotted  by  the  rain. 

At  seven  o'clock  she  found  herself  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Seine  in  a  network  of  narrow  streets, 
whose  tall  houses  added  to  the  darkness  and  depres- 
sion of  the  day.  She  inquired  of  passers-by,  who 
stopped  unwillingly  in  such  weather  and  at  such  a 
busy  hour,  the  way  to  Christopher's  lodgings  in  the 
Rue  St.  Andre  des  Arts.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
she  followed  their  directions  across  the  maze  of  little 
streets.  At  last,  leaving  the  Rue  Bonaparte  by  the 
Rue  Jacob,  and  crossing  the  dark  Rue  de  Seine,  she 
came  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  upon  the  Rue  St. 
Andr6  des  Arts  ;  for  the  first  time  during  her  long 
journey  she  was  conscious  of  emotion.  The  sight  of 
those  familiar  words,  Rue  St.  Andre  des  Arts,  which 
she  had  written  more  than  a  hundred  times  in 
addressing  her  letters  to  Christopher,  filled  her  with 
a  sudden  and  strange  emotion.  How  close  they  made 
him  feel  to  her.  How  suddenly  real  became  her 

287 


meeting  with  him.  How  kindly,  how  familiar  they 
looked  on  the  white  wall. 

The  clocks  had  struck  seven  when  she  was  wander- 
ing in  the  tortuous  streets  beside  the  fecole  des  Beaux 
Arts.  It  was  nearly  the  half-hour  when  she  arrived 
before  Christopher's  lodgings. 

The  door  stood  open.  In  the  hall  was  a  dirty 
crop-headed,  small-eyed  man  in  shirt-sleeves,  slippers 
and  green  baize  apron,  reading  a  newspaper.  A 
pail  was  at  his  feet,  a  broom  leaned  against  his 
shoulder.  The  muddy  mat  was  pulled  on  one  side, 
and  the  stone  floor  was  thick  with  dry  dust. 

Mary  inquired  for  Christopher.  The  man  raised 
his  little  eyes  from  the  newspaper  and  scowled  at 
her.  He  looked  at  her  umbrella,  which  was  making 
a  pool  on  the  stone  floor,  then  he  glared  at  her  canvas 
bag,  and  finally  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face. 

"  It  is  too  early,"  he  said ;  "  Monsieur  Grafton 
was  at  the  ball  last  night." 

Mary  said,  "  Will  you  permit  me  to  go  up  ? " 

"  I  cannot,  madame." 

"  I  am  his  mother." 

"  In  that  case  you  can  certainly  go  to  his  room  ; 
but  I  do  not  think  that  he  has  yet  returned."  He 
walked  away  to  the  end  of  the  passage  and  called  up 
the  stairs.  A  woman's  voice  answered  him.  He 
demanded  if  Monsieur  Grafton  had  come  back.  The 
woman  said,  No.  He  said  that  a  lady  was  coming 
up  to  wait  for  him,  and  then  turning  to  Mary,  said, 
"They  keep  up  their  mischief  till  daybreak,  and 
long  after.  I  myself,  last  year,  encountered  a  cab- 
load  of  these  fine  young  fellows  by  the  Gare  St. 

288 


The  Risk 

Lazare  at  eight  o'clock  ;  they  were  singing  loud 
enough  to  wake  the  dead,  and  their  antics  disgusted 
me,  who  am  easy-minded  enough  in  such  matters. 
It  is  youth.  They  are  mad  on  these  occasions.  One 
must  look  the  other  way." 

When  Mary  arrived  at  the  top  of  this  building, 
she  found  a  tired-faced  woman  waiting  for  her  at 
an  open  door. 

"  Monsieur  Grafton,"  said  this  dame,  who  wore  a 
white  cap  and  had  a  brush  and  pan  in  her  hand, 
"has  not  yet  come  back.  He  was  at  the  students' 
ball  last  night.  A  pity  that  he  went.  He  is  too 
good  for  such  company.  When  he  comes  back  he 
will  be  too  tired  for  visitors.  But  if  you  wait  you 
will  see  him.  I  shall  not  make  his  coffee  till  I  see 
him.  I  have  experience  of  these  affairs." 

"  He  cannot  be  very  long,"  said  Mary. 

"  No ;  unless  some  of  his  friends  have  carried  him 
off  to  sleep  elsewhere." 

"  I  will  wait." 

"  You  have  travelled  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  From  far  ?  " 

"  From  London." 

"  But  that  is  a  long  way.  You  must  have  been 
in  the  train  all  night.  *And  now  you  are  wet.  I  will 
light  the  stove,  and  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  make  some 
coffee." 

Mary  accepted  this  suggestion,  and  entered  Chris- 
topher's room,  which  was  also  his  studio.  The  smell 
of  stale  tobacco  hung  about  the  apartment,  which 
was  very  dirty  and  untidy. 

28g  U 


The  Shadow 

While  she  was  lighting  the  stove,  the  woman  said, 
"  I  am  fond  of  Monsieur  Grafton.  He  is  a  young 
man  with  a  heart.  I  say  he  is  too  good  for  these 
wild  chaps,  who  call  themselves  students.  They  make 
him  as  bad  as  themselves.  When  I  saw  him  go 
down  the  stairs  last  night,  I  could  have  dropped  dead 
where  I  stood."  She  got  up  from  her  knees  and 
looked  at  Mary.  "  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  go 
with  the  Clericals,  but  I  have  my  religion  still ;  and 
when  I  saw  Monsieur  Grafton,  I  tell  you,  it  made 
my  blood  run-  cold." 

Mary  became  so  white  that  the  woman  checked. 
"  You  are  a  friend  of  his  ? "  she  asked. 
"  I  am  his  mother." 

"  Ah,  the  good  God  comfort  you,  madame,  for  I  am 
also  a  mother,  and  know  what  it  is  to  have  loved 
uselessly." 

Mary  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  will  say  no  more.  I  will  get  you  some  coffee. 
It  will  soon  be  warm  in  this  room,  though  the  sky- 
light keeps  it  a  long  time  cold.  You  can  make 
yourself  at  your  ease  till  Monsieur  Grafton  comes  back." 
When  Mary  was  alone,  she  crossed  the  room  to 
Christopher's  bed,  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her 
face  pressed  into  the  pillow,  began  to  cry  very  quietly 
and  softly. 

She  rose  presently,  with  recovered  composure,  but 
with  the  most  poignant  anguish  in  her  heart,  and  in  a 
stunned,  half-conscious  manner  began  to  walk  about 
the  room. 

She  came  to  the  picture  of  the  Madonna  and  stood 
still. 

290 


The  Risk 

The  picture  had  no  comfort  for  her.  it  was  full  of 
religious  feeling,  it  was  a  spiritual  picture ;  but  in  its 
very  religiousness  it  seemed  to  mock  her  last  hope. 
For  from  painting  this  pure  picture,  the  artist  had 
gone  to  some  orgy  of  which  even  the  porter  of  the 
house  spoke  with  disgust. 

Mary  contemplated  her  son's  Madonna.  She  de- 
spaired the  more  she  felt  its  spirituality. 

An  immense  horror  seized  upon  her.  What  was 
the  condition  of  a  soul  that  could  express  such  beauty 
and  such  purity,  and  go  from  the  labour  to  a  scene  of 
riot?  What  unbridgeable  gulf,  what  unfathomable 
abyss,  separated  his  character  from  hers  ?  In  what 
world  did  he  dwell,  that  was  so  unthinkably  different 
from  hers  ?  This  was  not  a  question  of  his  youth  or 
his  sex  ;  it  was  some  terrible  and  appalling  question 
of  the  soul. 

She  was  still  standing  before  the  picture  when  the 
woman  returned  with  the  coffee. 

"  I  have  looked  down  the  street,  but  he  is  not 
coming,"  she  said.  "  Ah,  they  are  very  wild,  these 
students.  They  paint  Christs,  and  Madonnas,  and 
saints,  but  they  do  not  understand  what  they  do.  It 
is  not  good  to  be  young." 

While  Mary  was  drinking  her  coffee,  the  woman 
said,  "  Some  people  go  to  the  students'  ball  who 
ought  to  be  in  prison.  It  is  horrible !  I  would  not 
have  gone  as  Monsieur  Grafton  went  last  night,  not 
if  I  had  been  sure  of  a  thousand  masses  for  my  soul." 

The  woman's  words  had  little  meaning  for  Mary 
Grafton.  It  was  agony  enough  to  know  that  he  had 
gone  willingly  to  some  godless  orgy ;  she  thought  that 

291  U  a 


The  Shadow 

the  woman  referred  to  the  spirit  in  which  he  had  set 
out  for  the  evil  carousal. 

"  But  look  !  "  cried  the  woman  of  a  sudden,  as  she 
made  some  pretence  at  putting  things  straight  on  the 
table ;  "  a  letter,  madame !  it  is  perhaps  for  you." 
She  brought  the  unfinished  letter  to  Mary.  "  Perhaps 
it  will  tell  you  where  he  is,  and  explain  why  he  has 
not  yet  returned." 

Mary's  eyes  fell  upon  the  words,  "  My  own  dearest 
mother."  They  seemed  to  thrust  a  dagger  through 
her  heart. 

She  read  the  hurried,  impulsive,  and  affectionate 
letter.  Christopher's  mood  of  the  previous  night  had 
cause  him  to  express  an  almost  gushing  devotion 
towards  his  mother.  On  a  wave  of  sentimentalism> 
conscious  of  remorse  for  his  intemperance  at  the  table, 
he  had  been  borne  forward  into  the  most  extravagant 
expressions  of  devotion  and  duty.  He  said  how  the 
memory  of  the  eyry  grew  every  day  more  dear  to 
him;  how  he  saw  clearer  now  the  goodness  with  which 
she  had  surrounded  him  ;  how  he  realised  the  love 
and  self-sacrifice  of  her  noble  heart  in  providing  him 
with  the  means  to  follow  his  art.  "  I  am  more  deter- 
mined," the  unfinished  letter  concluded,  "  every  day  I 
live,  nay,  every  hour  I  live,  to  succeed  in  my  art,  that 
I  may  make  our  future  together  full  of  happiness  and 
pleasure  and  tenderest  love." 

Mary  knew  that  this  was  not  the  utterance  of  a 
hypocrite.  When  he  wrote  those  words  he  meant 
them. 

But  the  very  generosity  and  extravagance  of  his 
sentiments,  honest  though  they  were,  terrified  her  soul, 

2Q2 


The  Risk 

because  she  saw  how  pitiably  they  lay  at  the  mercy 
of  any  mood.  He  was  without  direction. 

As  she  finished  reading  the  letter,  she  thought, 
"  It  was  not  from  painting  that  picture  he  went  to 
riot  and  wickedness,  but  from  writing  this  letter." 

The  woman  left  her,  and  she  sat  solitary  in  the 
room,  with  the  letter  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  Madonna. 

The  church  clocks  outside  struck  nine  o'clock. 


293 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


''PHE  morning  wore  away,  and  Christopher  did  not 
1  return. 

At  half-past  twelve  the  porter  looked  into  the  room. 

"  He  has  not  returned,  then  ? " 

"  No." 

"  And  you,  madame  ?  You  must  be  hungry.  Would 
it  not  be  better  for  you  to  go  to  the  restaurant  at  the 
corner  and  get  some  dejeuner  ?  " 

"  I  will  wait  here." 

"  I  can  bring  you  something,  if  you  wish  it.  It  is 
not  good  to  starve." 

Mary  accepted  the  offer. 

When  he  brought  her  the  luncheon  he  said,  "  I  have 
left  word  at  the  restaurant  that  you  are  here,  in  case  he 
should  go  there  first,  since  he  must  eat  before  he  works." 

He  came  and  took  away  the  tray  at  three  o'clock. 
There  was  still  no  news  of  Christopher. 

When  she  was  alone  again,  a  sudden  feeling  of 
intense  fear  took  possession  of  her.  She  got  up 
suddenly  from  her  seat  and  began  to  pace  the  room. 
"  Oh,  God  ! "  she  kept  crying — "  oh,  dear  God  ! "  a  cry 
that  was  a  prayer,  an  exclamation  that  was  a  litany. 
"  Oh,  God  ! — oh,  dear  God  " — the  voice  was  very  low 
and  soft  and  agonising ;  her  eyes,  expressing  terror, 

294 


The  Blow 

glanced  here  and  there  with  wild  entreaty  ;  her  hands 
were  clasped,  every  now  and  then  she  raised  them  up, 
pressing  them  against  her  breast.  Each  time  she  turned 
at  the  end  of  the  room  she  found  the  calm  eyes  of  the 
Madonna  confronting  her  with  a  steady  scrutiny. 

As  she  walked  to  and  fro  in  this  state  of  wild  grief 
her  eyes  caught  sight  of  the  little  Fe"nelon  she  had 
given  him  on  his  departure  from  London.  It  was  on 
the  side  of  the  table  at  which  he  had  written  his  letter 
to  her,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  cover  was  a  little  pile 
of  grey  dust ;  he  had  used  it  as  an  ash-tray  for  his 
cigarette. 

She  picked  up  this  book  as  she  went,  spilling  the 
ash,  which  clung  about  her  fingers,  and,  still  continuing 
to  pace  the  room,  sobbing  in  a  soft  and  tearless  way, 
opened  the  familiar  volume  and  read  the  words  which 
first  came  to  her  eyes  : 

"  Whilst  you  live  without  God  in  the  world,  you  arc  the 
continual  sport  of  fortune,  and  the  prey  to  the  injustice, 
malignity,  and  evil  designs  of  men.  Your  unrestrained  pas- 
sions expose  you  to  those  of  others,  and  your  unbridled  desires 
associate  you  in  their  crimes  ;  your  pride  and  self-love  (which 
are  incompatible  with  those  of  your  neighbour)  foam  and  swell 
against  opposition,  like  the  billows  of  the  angry  ocean,  and 
occasion  you  a  thousand  shipwrecks.  You  exist  in  constant 
warfare  with  all  around  you,  and  know  not  where  to  rest.  Is 
this  a  state,  even  with  worldly  prosperity,  to  be  preferred  to  the 
holy  hope,  the  divine  calm,  the  conscious  trust  in  Providence, 
possessed  by  that  soul,  which,  having  renounced  its  self-love 
and  restrained  its  oassions,  walks  humbly  with  its  God  ? " 

She  could  read  no  further.  She  closed  the  book, 
and  clasping  it  tightly  in  her  hands,  raised  her  eyes, 
crying,  "  Oh,  God  !  help  me  !  " 

295 


The  Shadow 

She  saw  the  infinite  separation  between  herself 
and  her  son.  They  inhabited  each  a  hemisphere. 
They  were  under  a  different  sky,  breathing  a  different 
air,  surrounded  by  quite  different  objects.  She  had 
the  holy  hope,  the  divine  calm,  the  conscious  trust 
in  Providence  ;  whilst  he,  without  direction,  without 
God,  was  the  sport  of  fortune,  the  prey  of  evil  men, 
exposed  to  the  passions  and  crimes  of  those  who 
live  as  though  immortality  were  a  figment  of  the  brain. 

Why  did  he  not  return  ?  The  thought  that  he 
was  the  prey  of  evil  men  filled  her  with  horror. 

She  opened  the  door  and  looked  down  the  stairs. 
She  returned  to  the  room,  leaving  the  door  open, 
and  began  once  more  to  walk  about  in  wildest  fear. 

At  five  o'clock  there  was  no  news  of  him.  She 
left  the  room  and  went  down  the  stairs.  For  nearly 
an  hour  she  walked  up  and  dow'n  in  front  of  the 
house  waiting  for  him. 

The  porter  came  out  to  get  himself  a  paper. 

"  He  will  not  be  back  till  night  now,"  he  said, 
over  his  shoulder. 

Mary  returned  to  the  studio.  She  made  herself 
busy.  She  opened  her  canvas  bag,  and  saw  to  the 
stove  ;  she  poured  out  some  water  and  washed  her 
face  and  hands ;  she  removed  her  hat,  and  did  her 
hair  before  Christopher's  glass.  All  through  these 
operations  she  was  praying. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  woman  came  to  the  room. 

"  What  will  you  do,  madame  ?  You  cannot  sleep 
in  this  place." 

"  I  do  not  need  sleep,  but  I  must  stay  here." 

"  But  you  will  make  yourself  ill.     It  is  unwise." 
296 


The   Blow 

"  What  is  it  that  can  keep  him  ?  Do  help  me ; 
I  am  a  stranger  in  Paris,  and  I  do  not  understand. 
Are  there  no  friends  of  his  to  whom  I  could  go, 
who  would  help  me  to  find  him  ?  He  must  be  ill 
to  stay  so  long  away.  What  do  you  think  is  the 
cause  ?  Is  it  possible  for  you  to  send  anywhere 
and  inquire  ?  Please  help  me,  I  am  very  distressed. 
I  want  to  see  my  son  quickly.  It  is  such  a  pain 
for  me  to  wait." 

The  woman  took  Mary's  trembling  hands  and 
patted  them  reassuringly. 

"  It  is  with  you  like  this  because  you  are  a  young 
mother  and  have  a  good  heart.  It  is  sometimes  better 
perhaps  for  those  mothers  who  think  no  more  of 
their  children  than  a  chestnut-tree  thinks  of  its  chest- 
nuts. Our  children  burden  our  young  years  when 
we  might  enjoy  ourselves,  and  then  when  we  have 
got  the  wrinkles  round  the  eyes  and  the  stiffness 
in  the  knees — what  ?  Why,  they  break  our  hearts  ! 
Tut,  it  is  nothing  to  them.  But  the  good  God  knows 
all  these  things,  and  that  is  one  comfort.  I  could 
not  go  on  with  my  sufferings  if  I  did  not  say 
often  in  the  day,  'Well,  the  good  God  knows  all 
about  these  things.'  And  you,  madame,  must  say  the 
same  thing,  for  we  poor  women  have  no  help  nor 
comfort  in  our  middle  age  except  what  the  blessed 
God  will  send  us.  And  as  for  this  pretty  young 
son  of  yours,  he  will  come  back  to-night  before 
bedtime,  though  I  hope  he  won't  bring  a  noisy  band 
of  his  comrades  along  with  him  ;  and  you  and  he 
can  make  yourselves  very  happy  here  till  it's  time  for 
you  to  get  into  the  bed  which  I  will  prepare  for  you 

297 


The  Shadow 

on  the  next  floor.  And  look  here,  I  will  send  my 
husband  to  the  restaurant  for  a  nice  little  dinner 
for  you,  and  when  it  is  finished  I  will  bring  you  a 
cup  of  coffee,  and  you  shall  be  as  snug  and  com- 
fortable up  here  as  if  you  were  at  home  by  your  own 
fireside.  So  rest  quiet,  madame,  and  be  sure  that 
the  good  God  knows  what  you  feel  in  your  heart, 
which  is  true,  or  the  world  wouldn't  go  round  as 
it  does,  and  that  I'm  very  sure  of." 

Mary  was  now  in  a  condition  of  the  greatest  dis- 
tress. From  the  moment  when  Annabel  first  hinted 
the  danger,  her  mind  had  been  agitated  by  fear. 
She  had  agonised  with  herself  what  to  do,  and  then, 
driven  by  their  resistible  impulse  of  motherhood,  had 
set  out  for  Paris.  The  journey  had  been  a  torture 
of  her  nerves  on  account  of  the  alarm  she  felt  for 
Christopher's  safety.  She  had  hardly  closed  her  eyes 
in  the  train  from  Calais  to  the  Gare  du  Nord.  She 
had  made  her  way  through  the  drenching  streets  of 
a  strange  city  to  discover  that  her  son  was  not  in 
his  room,  that  he  had  gone  on  the  previous  evening 
to  some  hideous  depravity,  and  that  he  had  not 
returned  all  night.  She  had  waited  through  the  long 
morning,  through  the  longer  afternoon,  and  now, 
sleepless — physically  broken  and  mentally  tortured — 
her  vigil  was  still  unended.  Night  had  fallen  on 
Paris.  The  lamps  were  shining  in  the  streets ;  the 
shops  made  facades  of  fire  in  the  long  boulevards. 
Theatres  and  music-halls  were  opening  their  doors. 
From  the  streets  ascended  the  brisk  hum  of  a  world 
going  out  to  make  merry.  And  she  still  sat  in  the 
gloom,  waiting  for  her  son  who  did  not  return. 

298 


The  Blow 

To  remain  there  became  with  every  minute  more 
impossible.  To  do  nothing,  to  sit  actionless,  to  wait, 
was  beyond  the  point  of  endurance.  When  the  man 
arrived  with  her  dinner  from  the  restaurant  he  found 
her  pacing  the  room,  white  of  face,  her  eyes  lustrous 
and  feverish,  her  whole  manner  expressing  the  most 
terrible  agitation.  He  lighted  the  gas  and  drew  the 
curtains,  while  she  poured  out  a  stream  of  words 
imploring  his  advice,  his  help,  his  co-operation  in 
finding  her  son. 

"  Madame  may  make  her  mind  quiet,"  he  said. 
"  Monsieur  Grafton  will  return  in  an  hour.  I  am  sure 
of  it."  He  frowned  upon  her  agitation,  not  knowing 
how  to  handle  it,  and  escaped  from  the  room  as  soon 
as  possible. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  rooms  he  sent  his  wife  to 
the  top  of  the  house  to  quiet  the  English  lady  in  the 
studio.  The  woman  arrived,  panting  from  her  climb 
of  the  stairs,  to  find  Mary  sitting  in  a  chair  far  from 
the  table  where  her  dinner  was  set  out. 

"  Come,  maclame,  you  must  not  sit  there,  with  your 
hands  idle  and  your  thoughts  everywhere.  Our  hands 
are  given  us  to  keep  our  thoughts  to  our  duty.  He 
who  folds  his  hands  is  lost.  When  the  hands  are  idle 
the  thoughts  do  what  they  will.  So  you,  make  use  of 
your  hands,  madame  ;  take  a  knife  and  a  fork,  and  do 
your  duty,  which  is  to  eat,  since  God  made  every  man 
to  stand  in  need  of  nourishment.  When  we  starve  we 
disobey  the  laws  of  the  good  God.  I  myself  keep  no 
fasts,  not  for  any  man.  Eat,  madame,  it  is  your  duty 
to  do  so." 

Mary  made  a  most  moving  appeal  to  this  woman. 
299 


She  implored  her  to  send  someone  to  the  place  where 
Christopher  had  gone  on  the  previous  evening  ;  if  not 
there,  then  to  his  usual  haunts — to  the  house  of  his 
master,  to  the  lodgings  of  his  friends.  She  could 
not  bear,  she  said,  to  wait  any  longer  in  this  dreadful 
uncertainty. 

The  woman  said,  "  Look  here,  my  good  lady,  you 
are  too  exigeante,  and  I  tell  you  that.  What  1  Your 
pretty  boy  has  been  dancing,  and  has  gone  to  sleep  on 
the  floor  of  a  friend's  lodging,  and  you  are  to  make  an 
outcry  at  the  gate  of  heaven !  Tut,  there  is  no  harm 
in  Monsieur  Grafton.  To  be  a  little  gay — what  is 
that  at  his  age  ?  One  would  think,  to  hear  you  talk 
so,  that  the  devil  had  already  got  his  soul.  I  tell  you, 
you  do  not  know  the  world.  You  expect  too  much. 
Come,  be  reasonable.  Eat  your  dinner,  and  I  promise 
you  Monsieur  Grafton  shall  be  laughing  here  and 
smoking  his  cigarettes  and  telling  you  all  about  it 
before  the  good  St.  Sulpice  informs  us  that  it  is  ten 
o'clock." 

This  assurance  did  not  satisfy  Mary.  The  woman's 
easy  tolerance  shocked  and  horrified  her. 

She  reiterated  her  plea.  She  caught  the  woman's 
hand  and  held  it  in  a  pressure  of  persuasion,  begging 
her,  beseeching  her,  to  send  someone  into  the  streets 
to  inquire  for  Christopher. 

"  Look,  madame,  I  will  make  a  bargain,"  replied 
the  woman  ;  "  you  eat  your  dinner,  and  I  will  send  my 
man  I  know  where." 

"  Yes,  I  promise.  Will  you  send  him  at  once  ? 
Now?" 

"Yes,  yes,  at  once.  But  I  tell  you  this,  vou  are 
300 


The  Blow 

too  exigeante.  The  good  God  did  not  make  mothers 
to  break  their  hearts  over  the  little  peccadilles  of  their 
sons.  Tut,  what  he  has  done  is  nothing.  It  is  that. 
One  would  think  he  had  done  a  murder  or  stolen 
some  money,  to  see  you  so  white.  Make  your  mind 
easy ;  he  has  been  a  little  merry,  like  many  others, 
and  he  will  come  back  laughing  and  gay  in  spite  of  a 
mal  de  ttte" 

While  Mary  sat  at  the  table,  she  reflected  on  this 
condition  of  mind,  this  extraordinary  and  yet  quite 
common  attitude  towards  sin,  which,  after  two  thousand 
years  of  Christianity,  is  precisely  that  of  the  pagan 
world.  She  was  deemed  exigeante  because  she  saw 
that  a  state  of  the  soul  which  for  one  moment  can  con- 
template vice  and  intemperance  is  the  state  of  a  soul 
not  consciously  directed  towards  God,  and  therefore 
exposed  to  all  the  perilous  temptations  of  the  soul's 
enemy. 

Why  did  people  speak  lightly  of  these  evil  things  ? 
Why  did  they  discriminate  between  sins  ?  Why  did 
they  make  degrees  of  darkness  ? 

Could  not  they  see  that  a  soul  is  either  directed 
towards  God  or  set  to  follow  its  own  caprices  ?  Is  it 
difficult  for  the  world  to  realise  the  so  simple  and 
inevitable  truth  that  the  choice  of  a  character  lies  only 
between  God  and  evil  ?  And  how  strange,  how  be- 
wildering, that  the  Church  has  failed  after  all  these 
long  centuries  to  make  clear  the  great  fundamental 
teaching  of  Christ,  that  it  is  not  obedience  to  this  or 
that  law  which  matters,  but  the  conscious,  increasing, 
and  absolutely  controlling  passion  of  adoration  of  God. 

These  reflections  served  to  quiet  her  agitation. 
301 


The  Shadow 

She  recovered  her  normal  restful  ness — the  sense  of  a 
divine  protection.  She  committed  herself  to  God,  and 
waited  in  a  cold  composure  of  spirit  for  the  return  of 
her  son. 

The  clocks  of  Paris  struck  nine.  Every  stroke 
was  a  chastisement  of  her  nerves.  The  good  woman 
of  the  house  came  up  the  stairs  with  coffee. 

"  I  have  got  some  news  for  you,"  she  said.  "  My 
husband  has  seen  some  of  the  students.  Monsieur 
Grafton  was  full  of  his  tricks.  He  was  very  gay,  one 
of  the  wildest.  But  he  went  home  with  four  or  five 
of  his  friends.  My  husband  says  he  will  perhaps  sleep 
till  late,  then  go  and  get  some  supper,  and  return  here 
at  midnight  or  a  little  later,  seeing  he  will  not  be 
sleepy.  So  you  had  better  drink  your  coffee  and  let 
me  show  you  the  room  I  have  made  ready  for  you. 
You  will  see  him  in  the  morning.  And  I  should  say 
that  sleep  is  what  you  need  more  than  any  son,  be  he 
the  best  on  earth,  for  sleep  is  one  of  the  laws,  and 
you  have  rings  round  your  eyes  which  are  like  blows 
from  a  man's  fists." 

Mary  asked  permission,  when  she  had  seen  her 
room,  to  remain  in  the  studio  till  eleven  o'clock. 
The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  as  for 
that  she  might  do  what  she  pleased,  but  it  was  a  sin 
to  be  out  of  that  nice  warm  bed  she  had  made  ready 
for  her. 

Ten  o'clock  struck.  For  an  hour  longer  Mary 
waited  in  the  studio. 

When  the  churches,  from  belfry  and  tower,  were 
calling  over  the  roofs  of  Paris  that  it  was  eleven 
o'clock,  she  opened  the  door  of  the  studio  and  stood 

302 


The  Blow 

on  the  stairhead,  listening  for  a  sound.  The  house 
was  still.  She  descended  a  few  stairs  and  waited. 
While  she  was  listening  she  was  praying.  Not  a 
sound  came  to  her.  She  returned  to  the  studio. 

Another  hour  went  by ;  the  day  had  passed ;  a 
new  morrow  was  born.  Still  there  was  no  sign  of 
Christopher.  Very  reluctantly  she  left  the  studio, 
lowering  the  "gas,  and  descended  to  her  room  on  the 
next  floor. 

She  did  not  wake  till  nine  o'clock,  and  only  then 
at  the  entry  of  the  woman  with  coffee. 

"  Has  he  come  back  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  question  had  been  so  eager  and  confident ;  the 
answer  was  terrible. 

"  My  husband  has  now  gone  to  ask  someone.  Drink 
your  coffee  and  eat  your  roll  and  butter.  By  the  time 
you  have  dressed  he  will  be  back  with  news." 

"  But  what  can  have  happened  ? " 

"You  will  be  off  again  on  your  wild  fit  of  last 
night !  I  tell  you  we  shall  have  news  in  half  an  hour." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  very  gay  this  time,  that  is  all.  Now, 
take  what  I  have  brought  you,  and  get  ready,  or 
Monsieur  Grafton  will  be  back  before  you  are  up." 

The  woman  left  her.  Mary  turned  her  face  to  the 
pillow  and  sobbed  a  prayer  of  agony  to  God. 

An  hour  had  passed  when  she  entered  the  studio. 
No  one  was  there.  The  eyes  of  her  son's  Madonna 
seemed  to  contemplate  her  with  compassion. 

She  went  to  the  landing,  listened  a  moment,  and 
then  descended.  When  she  reached  the  ground  floor 

303 


she  found  the  woman  standing  outside  the  open  door, 
looking  down  the  street     Mary  went  to  her. 

"  My  husband  has  gone  again  ;  there  was  no  news. 
He  will  be  back  very  soon.  It  is  better  for  you  to 
go  upstairs.  Look,  people  are  staring  at  you.  If  you 
please,  madame,  return  to  the  studio." 

It  was  not  till  after  eleven  o'clock  that  the  woman 
came  upstairs,  her  husband  followed,  and  stood  in  the 
door  looking  at  Mary.  There  was  something  in  their 
faces  that  filled  the  mother's  heart  with  a  terrible 
apprehension. 

"  What  is  the  news  ? "  It  was  like  a  cry,  full  of 
most  piercing  pain. 

"  Madame  must  not  look  so  wild,"  said  the  woman, 
pretending  that  she  was  more  out  of  breath  than  was 
really  the  case.  "  It  will  do  no  good  to  be  crying  and 
making  a  fuss." 

"  No,  that  will  do  no  good  at  all,"  said  the  man 
from  the  door. 

"  What  has  happened  ? " 

"  Look,  madame,  it  was  what  I  told  you  last  night. 
Monsieur  Grafton  was  very  gay  at  the  ball.  He  was 
exceedingly  gay.  And  that  is  all.  So  I  was  right, 
you  see,  after  all,  was  I  not  ? " 

"  My  wife  said  to  me  last  night,  Monsieur  Grafton 
has  been  gay  at  the  ball ;  it  is  nothing  else.  She 
said  so  several  times." 

"  But  where  is  he  ? " 

"  He  has  got  himself  into  a  little  trouble.  Only  a 
little  trouble.  Through  his  gaiety;  it  is  nothing  else." 

"Madame  understands;  Monsieur  Grafton  has  only 
been  gay." 

304 


The  Blow 

Mary  could  not  question,  could  not  speak.  Her 
eyes,  full  of  tragedy,  rested  on  the  face  of  the  woman. 
She  was  white  as  death. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  madame,  what  my  husband  has 
heard.  It  was  a  little  matter  with  an  agent  de  police ; 
but  nothing,  nothing.  And  it  was  only  a  part  of  the 
gaiety,  you  must  understand." 

"  Yes,  it  is  necessary  to  understand  that,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Why,  madame,  you  must  not  look  as  if  you  saw 
the  dead  rise  !  Come,  come  ;  sit  down,  and  look  like 
a  living  woman,  or  I  will  tell  you  no  more.  Have  I 
spoken  like  a  fool  with  no  sense  that  you  should  look 
at  me  as  if  Monsieur  Grafton  had  committed  a 
crime  ? " 

"  There  is  no  crime  in  the  matter ;  it  is  necessary 
to  understand  that." 

"  I  tell  you,  madame,  it  has  all  to  do  with  the 
gaiety  at  the  ball.  It  is  part  of  that  jollification.  A 
mere  nothing.  Why,  if  it  were  a  son  of  mine  I  should 
laugh." 

"  Yes,  one  would  certainly  laugh." 

"  So,  look  a  little  happier,  I  beg  you,  madame, 
or  Monsieur  Grafton  will  be  afraid  to  come  back.  Tut, 
you  must  teach  him  to  laugh  at  the  affair." 

"  You  see,  madame,  these  things  will  happen  among 
the  students." 

"  No  doubt  Monsieur  le  juge  de  paix  will  make 
light  of  this  little  affair  ;  for  all  Frenchmen  remember 
that  they  have  once  been  young,  which  is  a  mercy  to 
many  a  poor  fellow  in  the  violon." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  doubt  Monsieur  Grafton  will  soon 
305  X 


The  Shadow 

be  set  free.  Perhaps  a  little  amende — fifty  or  sixty 
francs — but  he  will  be  set  free.  But,  certainly." 

"  That  agent  de police  must  have  been  a  fool  to  take 
Monsieur  Grafton  to  le  paste  and  bring  him  before 
le  commissaire.  He  should  have  looked  away. 
Those  who  cannot  laugh  should  turn  the  head.  It  is 
necessary  to  do  that  in  a  city  like  Paris  ;  why,  of 
course,  we  all  know." 

"  There  are  gendarmes  and  gendarmes,  madame ;  one 
would  arrest  Monsieur  Grafton  and  another  would  not. 
Monsieur  le  juge  de  paix  will  understand  that,  you 
may  be  sure." 

"  You  mustn't  look  so  frightened  and  dead,  madame. 
Why,  what  a  poor  mother  you  make  yourself!  Is 
your  son  a  babe  or  is  he  a  fine  young  man  with  a 
gallant  spirit  ?  Come,  you  must  not  look  so.  We 
shall  do  nothing  for  you,  my  husband  and  I,  if  you  do 
not  laugh  at  this  little  affair.  Tut,  it  is  nothing.  One 
laughs  at  such  things  every  day  in  Paris.  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  think.  I  think  that  agent  de  police  is  a 
Catholic,  one  of  the  Clericals  ;  there  are  some  of  those 
in  the  gendarmerie;  and  it  was  seeing  Monsieur  Grafton 
dressed  like  that  picture  there " 

"  It  was  certainly  very  foolish  to  go  dressed  in  that 
fashion " 

"  Madame ! " 

"  Look,  she  dies  ! " 

"  Get  me  some  water,  Etienne.    Quick  !  " 

Mary  staggered  to  her  feet.  She  was  like  death ;  her 
lips  were  blue  ;  there  were  great  circles  of  swelling 
darkness  under  her  eyes.  It  seemed  that  she  did  not 
breathe.  For  a  moment  she  swayed,  as  if  she  would  fall. 

306 


MADAME — !'   'LOOK  SHE  DIES  !  '   '  GET  ME  SOME  WATER, 
ETIENNE,  QUICK!' 


The  Blow 

The  woman  caught  her,  and  held  her  fast.  The  poor 
lady  lifted  her  head,  stood  firm,  and  gently  laid  her 
hands,  which  were  cold  like  ice,  upon  the  arms  of  the 
good  woman. 

She  was  standing  in  this  position  when  the  man 
returned  with  the  glass  of  water.  She  strained  in  a 
lifting  manner  with  her  head,  as  if  something  troubled 
her  throat.  She  closed  her  eyes  ;  her  lips  were  rigid. 
The  unearthly  pallor  of  her  face  had  that  terrible 
glaze  which  is  the  frost  of  death.  And  it  was  set, 
cold,  stricken.  It  was  as  if  she  had  looked  upon  the 
frown  of  God. 

"  Drink  the  water,"  said  the  woman,  taking  the  glass. 

"  Madame  need  feel  no  alarm,"  said  the  man 
huskily. 

"  She  is  religious,"  said  the  woman  to  her  husband, 
as  though  Mary  could  not  hear  her ;  "  it  is  not  the 
prison  that  troubles  her,  it  is  the  dress  that  he  wore ; 
we  should  not  have  said  anything  as  to  that.  Drink  a 
little  water,  madame.  Perhaps  she  is  a  Catholic,  for 
there  are  still  Catholics  in  England.  Certainly  she  is 
religious.  It  is  a  great  pity.  Come,  dear  madame, 
the  water  will  refresh  you." 

Mary  took  the  glass  and  held  it.  Her  hand  did 
not  shake.  She  stood  so  firmly  that  the  woman 
relaxed  her  hold. 

"  I  must  go  to  him,"  she  said. 

"  But  that  is  impossible,  madame,"  said  the  man. 

"You  must  wait  till  he  comes  back,"  said  the 
woman  ;  "  to-morrow,  perhaps,  or  the  next  day." 

"  You  see,  madame,  Monsieur  Grafton  has  been 
already  taken  from  \htposte  in  what  we  call  le  panier 

307  2  x 


The  Shadow 

d  salade  to  the  prison.  But  it  is  not  yet  known  when 
he  will  be  brought  before  le  tribunal.  To-day, 
to-morrow,  next  day — next  week,  it  is  not  yet  known." 

Mary  closed  her  eyes.  "  Let  me  be  alone,"  she 
murmured,  hardly  opening  her  lips.  "  For  a  few 
minutes  I  will  think.  Then  I  will  come  to  you." 

The  husband  interrogated  his  wife  with  a  glance  of 
his  eyes,  lifting  his  eyebrows.  The  wife  answered,  "  It 
is  better  to  leave  her  alone.  She  is  religious.  She 
will  pray,  she  will  weep,  and  that  will  do  her  good. 
Let  us  go  down." 

"  Madame  has  only  to  ring  the  bell  and  either  my 
wife  or  I  will  come  to  her,"  said  the  man. 

When  they  were  outside  the  door,  they  stood 
listening. 

"  She  will  die,"  whispered  the  man,  raising  his 
eyebrows  and  expressing  hopelessness  with  his  hands 
and  eyes. 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  M  She  is  religious. 
Did  I  not  say  last  night,  she  is  religious  ? " 

"  But  if  he  go  to  prison  !  For  he  has  injured  that 
gendarme,  look  you  ! " 

"  It  is  always  with  women  like  this  when  they  are 
religious." 

"  They  say  he  was  like  one  who  is  mad." 

"  Listen  ! " 

"  What  do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  woman  listened  for  a  moment,  bending  her 
head,  a  finger  at  her  lips.  Then,  half-turning  her 
head  to  the  man,  she  whispered  quickly  under  her 
breath,  "  She  weeps  !  " 


308 


CHAPTER   XX. 
COMPANIONS   IN   GRIEF 

F'OR  a  moment  the  mother,  who  had  received  her 
death-blow,  stood  where  the  good  people  of  the 
house  had   left  her.     She  was  rigid,  erect,  with  the 
immobility  and  solidity  of  a  statue.     It  seemed  that 
she  might  stand  there,  firm  and  upright,  for  ever. 

Suddenly  her  physical  energies  collapsed  and  went 
from  under  her,  like  a  broken  net.  She  sank  down- 
wards and  only  prevented  herself  from  falling  by 
clutching  a  chair,  into  which  she  dropped,  huddled 
and  helpless.  She  found  herself  bereft  of  vigour. 
She  was  shivering,  as  if  struck  by  a  palsy.  She  was 
ice  cold. 

She  began  to  cry  in  a  long  and  almost  childlike 
whimpering.  For  some  few  minutes  she  let  grief  run 
from  her  in  a  tide  of  tears,  broken  by  swift  and 
unviolent  sobbings  which  did  not  shake  her  body  or 
interrupt  her  breathing.  If  Christopher  could  have 
seen  her,  so  pitiful  and  broken,  so  quietly  bowed  and 
shattered,  he  would  have  been  driven  to  self-destruc- 
tion by  the  remorse  of  Judas.  There  was  some 
indescribable  degree  of  tragedy  in  her  posture ;  the 
feebleness  was  so  terrible  ;  the  abandonment  was  so 
complete  ;  she  was  Grief  without  hope,  without  want 
of  hope ;  she  was  a  heart  bleeding  to  death,  through 

309 


The  Shadow 

tears  which  soothed  and  numbed  the  pangs  of 
dissolution. 

Presently  this  awful  flow  of  quiet  agony  was  broken 
by  a  convulsive  sob  ;  she  was  shaken  throughout  her 
whole  body.  She  braced  herself  and  sat  upright ; 
her  tears  ceased ;  through  the  water  of  the  soul  she 
looked  towards  the  Madonna  ;  she  was  conscious  of  a 
great  cold  surrounding  her  heart.  She  closed  her  eyes, 
and  the  tears  that  had  so  suddenly  checked  there, 
welled  into  the  dark  lashes  ;  a  look  of  awe  deepened 
in  her  face,  a  look  that  was  half  horror  and  half 
resignation.  She  slipped  slowly  from  the  chair  upon 
her  knees,  clasped  her  hands,  raised  them  towards  her 
breast,  and  lifted  her  face  towards  the  protection 
of  God. 

It  was  not  possible  for  her  to  pray ;  stunned  and 
broken,  she  remained  kneeling,  with  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  her  face  lifted,  her  soul  directed  towards 
God,  but  inarticulate,  without  request,  without  want, 
without  hope. 

As  she  kneeled  there,  the  full  horror  of  her  son's 
infamy  came  towards  her  in  a  cloud  of  darkness, 
beating  great  wings  of  hellish  blackness  round  her 
soul,  mocking  her  piety,  destroying  her  hope,  laying 
desolate  the  last  vestige  of  her  self-control. 

She  realised  from  the  purity  of  her  own  soul  the  full 
infamy  of  her  son  ;  she  let  herself  fall  forward,  and 
lay  upon  the  ground,  her  arms  extended,  her  face 
pressed  to  the  floor,  like  a  being  annihilated  by  the 
thought  of  infinity. 

The  measure  of  her  ability  to  bear  sorrow  was  the 
measure  of  her  hope  in  Christopher  ;  while  she  could 

310 


Companions  in  Grief 

struggle  to  believe  that  he  was  approaching  God,  while 
she  could  persuade  herself  that  his  soul  was  drawing 
nearer  to  the  religious  life,  there  was  nothing — no 
agony,  no  desolation — she  could  not  have  borne  with- 
out a  tear,  without  a  cry ;  but  now,  hope  was 
destroyed.  It  was  not  only  that  Christopher  had 
done  this  terrible  thing ;  it  was  not  only  that  her 
perfectly  pure  and  most  reverent  spirit  looked,  with  an 
awe  incomprehensible  to  such  people  as  the  Frenchman 
and  his  wife,  upon  the  infamy  which  they  regarded  as 
the  pardonable  folly  of  a  young  and  high-spirited 
man  sowing  wild  oats — no,  it  was  not  only  that ; 
horrible  and  appalling  as  this  infamy  seemed  in  her 
eyes,  it  was  not  that  act  alone  which  had  destroyed 
her  last  hope  and  had  broken  her  heart.  It  was  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  perjured  his  soul ;  he  had 
played  trickster  to  the  love  of  his  mother. 

While  she  lay  prone  and  stunned  upon  the  ground, 
she  was  not  conscious  of  God.  She  was  conscious  of 
the  last  thing  upon  which  her  eyes  had  looked  before 
she  closed  them  in  an  effort  of  prayer.  She  was 
conscious  of  her  son's  Madonna. 

She  knew  that  as  she  lay  there  the  picture  contem- 
plated her  with  eyes  painted  by  her  son  ;  she  and 
the  Madonna  were  alone  there  together ;  there  was  no 
one  else  in  the  room  ;  and  that  Madonna,  that  com- 
panion of  her  bitter  agony,  was  a  lie.  The  purity  she 
expressed  was  impurity,  the  maternity  that  breathed 
from  her  was  a  mockery ;  the  holiness  that  shone  in 
her  calm  countenance  was  ribaldry ;  she  was  some- 
thing monstrous  and  infernal,  she  was  Leonardo's 
study  for  Judas  masquerading  as  the  Christ  Never 

311 


in  the  world  had  picture  so  blasphemous  and  shameless 
come  from  the  soul  of  man  ;  her  son  had  painted  it,  her 
child  who  was  in  prison  had  given  her  this  companion 
for  the  hour  of  her  disillusion  ;  the  picture  in  the  room 
was  like  a  ghost  standing  behind  her. 

It  was  not  the  austerity  of  her  virtue  which  broke 
her  down  ;  it  was  the  knowledge  pressing  upon  her 
consciousness  from  every  side  that  the  son  of  her  love 
had  deceived  her,  and  to  deceive  her  had  frightfully 
mocked  God.  She  recalled  the  letters  he  had  written 
to  her ;  she  thought  of  the  letter  lying  on  his  table — 
that  last  letter  written  with  the  Madonna  in  the  room, 
and  interrupted  by  the  blasphemy  of  an  unthinkable 
crime ;  he  had  gone  from  that  letter,  from  that  false 
Madonna,  to  a  scene  of  iniquity. 

It  was  these  thoughts  that  nailed  her  to  the  ground  ; 
they  shut  out  from  her  soul  contact  with  comfort ; 
they  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  pray.  She  was 
conscious  only  of  his  falsity ;  the  blow  which  had 
broken  her  heart  had  fallen  from  his  perjured  soul. 

All  beautiful  and  tender  sentiments  of  mercy  and 
forgiveness  expressed  in  such  phrases  as  "  Tout  com- 
prendre  dest  tout  pardonner"  were  destroyed  in  her 
heart ;  his  infamy  she  might  have  forgiven,  but  his 
guile,  his  mendacity,  his  Judas  kisses — these  things 
crushed  her  to  the  earth.  She  did  not  judge  him, 
she  did  not  condemn  him  ;  she  was  conscious  of  no 
revulsion  in  her  great  love  towards  him  ;  but  she  had 
nothing  in  her  heart  with  which  to  say,  "  I  forgive." 

It  was  not  love  which  had  died  in  her  heart.  It 
was  hope,  it  was  understanding.  Through  her  stunned 
mind  there  floated  memories  of  their  past,  from  that 

312 


Companions  in  Grief 

first  beginning  of  love  in  the  wooden  house  on  the 
great  western  prairie  lands,  down  to  the  night  of  his 
departure  from  the  eyry  in  London.  She  saw  him  in 
pictures.  A  child  sleeping  in  its  cot  beside  her  bed  ; 
a  child,  holding  her  hand  and  looking  up  at  the  stars, 
asking  questions ;  a  child  at  her  knee,  learning  to 
pray ;  she  saw  him  at  the  wooden  table  making  his 
first  excited  efforts  to  print  capital  letters  ;  seated  on 
a  pony,  riding  at  her  side  over  the  soft  undulating 
earth  of  the  prairie ;  sitting  in  her  lap,  his  cheek  laid 
against  her  breast,  listening  to  fairy  tales.  She  saw 
him  in  the  train  that  bore  them  both  from  the  West 
to  the  East,  on  the  great  ship  that  carried  them  across 
the  sea ;  clinging  to  her  at  Glevering  in  fear  of  being 
taken  from  her ;  crying  to  her  in  the  illness  which 
wasted  him  in  Trinity  Street  ;  standing  at  the  open 
window,  with  his  back  to  her,  uttering  the  first  words 
of  unrest,  and  going  from  her  into  the  world  with  the 
promise  to  pray  every  night  and  every  morning  for  the 
protection  of  God. 

What  had  she  failed  to  do  ?  What  appalling 
omission  had  she  made  in  her  training  ?  Why  had 
a  son  so  loved,  so  guarded,  so  taught,  so  prayed  for, 
fallen  to  the  infamy  of  a  perjured  soul  ?  One  thing 
had  struck  her  in  the  midst  of  her  desolation.  Had 
she  not  after  all  done  grievous  wrong  in  depriving  him 
of  the  patronage  of  Isabel  Grafton  ?  There  perhaps 
lay  the  real  cause  of  his  crime — the  poverty  to  which 
she  had  condemned  him.  If  he  had  gone  to  Glevering, 
if  she  had  given  him  up  to  those  hard  but  resolute 
minds,  would  he  not  have  been  so  surrounded  with 
guards  and  engirded  with  protection,  that — whatever 

313 


The  Shadow 

his  fate — this  unspeakable  degradation  of  infamy  could 
not  have  overtaken  him  ?  Had  she  done  well  to 
subject  him  to  the  restrictions  and  privations  of  a 
London  attic,  whose  windows  looked  upon  only 
wretchedness  and  want  ?  Had  she  not  crossed  the 
purpose  of  God  and  so  brought  him  to  this  dreadful 
catastrophe  ?  The  thought  that  perhaps  she  was 
responsible  lifted  her  from  the  ground.  She  rose  to  her 
feet,  pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  began  to 
walk  about  in  the  room,  judging  herself  and  seeking 
the  forgiveness  of  God. 

As  she  moved  to  and  fro  she  struck  something, 
and  stopped  abruptly,  drawing  her  hands  from  her 
eyes  ;  she  was  face  to  face  with  the  Madonna. 

The  woman  and  the  picture  contemplated  each  other. 
The  mother  contemplated  the  creation  of  her  son,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  picture  knew  the  last  secret 
of  her  soul,  while  to  her  the  picture  was  full  of  an 
insoluble  mystery.  Though  she  stood  there  for  ever, 
she  could  never  know  how  that  seemingly  pure  and 
seemingly  holy  face  had  come  into  existence,  nor  what 
mysteries  of  brain  and  soul  had  gone  to  its  creation. 

The  two  figures,  marvellously  contrasted,  contem- 
plated each  other  with  a  long  scrutiny.  The  contrast 
lessened,  Mary  began  to  find  herself  in  the  Madonna  ; 
it  was  as  if  she  had  come  to  a  mirror  and  seen,  not 
her  to-day's  agony  and  shattered  peace,  but  the 
sublime  repose  and  celestial  confidence  of  her  yesterday. 
It  was  disillusion  looking  into  a  glass  and  seeing 
illusion  ;  it  was  despair  going  to  a  mirror  to  contem- 
plate its  woe  and  finding  hope.  The  witness  of  her 
desolation  was  not  a  stranger  who  mocked ;  it  was  her 

314 


Companions  in  Grief 

own  vanished  faith,  her  own  departed  calm,  grieving 
for  her  with  a  divine  sorrow  and  some  subtle  in- 
expressible spirit  of  reproval.  As  she  looked  upon 
the  picture,  feeling  all  that  was  really  pure  and  really 
sincere  in  it — for  did  it  not  express  the  young  painter's 
remorse,  contrition,  and  aspiration  towards  his  mother  ? 
— it  seemed  that  some  voice  spoke  softly  and  tenderly 
in  her  ears,  saying  with  reproach,  "  In  prison^  and  ye 
visited  Me  not" 

She  turned  quickly  from  the  picture.  As  she  turned 
the  door  opened  ;  there  was  a  rustle  of  garments ;  a 
woman  entered  the  studio,  who  was  smiling.  It  was 
Isabel  Grafton. 

The  two  women  started  ;  Isabel  was  the  first  to 
regain  her  composure.  She  advanced  into  the  room 
saying,  "  Christopher,  then,  is  not  here  ?  But  you  ! — 
this  is  a  surprise,  Mary.  How  is  it  that  you  are  in 
Paris?" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  Mary  took  in  a  dazed 
manner.  It  struck  the  jealous  heart  of  the  mother  that 
this  antagonist  had  entered  the  studio  without  being 
announced.  She  was  familiar  with  the  place ;  she 
came  as  an  old  friend.  Her  next  words  deepened  this 
perplexing  discovery. 

"  Oh  !  he  has  finished  the  great  picture ! — I  must 
look  at  it."  She  approached  the  Madonna.  "  It  is 
very  good ;  he  has  improved  it.  Don't  you  think  it 
is  a  performance  ?  I  am  really  very  pleased.  At 
first  I  thought  it  would  be  only  sentimental,  wishy- 
washy.  He  has  got  strength  into  it.  The  blue  of  the 
robe  is  beautiful,  and  it  is  a  fabric.  That  is  very  good 
indeed."  She  turned  about  "  But  let  me  hear  about 

315 


The   Shadow 

you — what  has  brought  you  to  Paris  ?  It  is  odd  that 
we  should  meet  here." 

The  unusual  vivacity  of  the  mistress  of  Glevering 
and  her  evident  discomposure  at  encountering  Chris- 
topher's mother,  told  Mary  the  secret  of  the  money 
which  had  so  perplexed  Annabel  and  tortured  her  own 
mind.  This  discovery  only  added  to  the  pressing 
burden  of  Christopher's  deception.  He  had  deceived 
her  here.  The  pittance  which  she  had  weekly  scraped 
together  to  send  to  her  son  in  Paris  had  not  been 
necessary.  He  had  taken  it,  thrown  it  into  the  purse 
supplied  by  Glevering,  and  spent  it  in  riot  and  crime. 

The  bitterness  of  this  thought  made  the  cup  of  her 
agony  flow  over  ;  in  the  very  matter  where  she  had 
just  begun  to  upbraid  herself,  the  soul  of  Christopher 
had  perjured  itself.  She  had  thought  that  deprivation 
had  driven  him  into  infamy  ;  she  discovered  that  her 
enemy  had  supplied  the  means  which  had  accom- 
plished the  ruin  of  her  son.  Isabel  Grafton  had 
bought  his  soul,  and  Christopher  had  sold  his  mother's 
honour. 

Mary  could  not  answer  the  questions  addressed  to 
her.  She  contemplated  Isabel  with  a  horror  and  a 
reproach  of  which  she  was  quite  unconscious.  Isabel, 
who  was  passing  through  Paris  on  her  way  to  Vienna, 
and  who  had  come  to  take  Christopher  by  surprise, 
felt  that  Mary's  presence  in  the  studio  was  only 
explicable  on  the  supposition  that  she  had  discovered 
Glevering's  part  in  Christopher's  education.  She  was 
conscious  of  moral  discomfort ;  the  expression  of  Mary's 
gaze  touched  her  with  a  sense  of  guilt. 

"  I  hope,"  she  asked,  forcing  a  smile,  "  that  you  do 


Companions  in  Grief 

not  resent  my  interest  in  Christopher  ? "  She  waited 
for  an  answer,  and  then  added,  "  You  must  remember, 
my  dear  Mary,  that  after  all  he  is  my  brother's  son. 
You  cannot  expect  me  to  exorcise  natural  affection." 

"  Do  you  know,"  Mary  asked,  with  a  slow  and 
deadly  energy,  "  what  you  have  done  ? " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  You  have  taught  a  son  to  deceive  his  mother." 

"Your  theatrical  exaggeration  again  I  I  have 
really  done  nothing  of  the  sort  ;  I  have  supplied  my 
nephew  with  a  little  pocket-money.  Whether  he 
acquainted  his  mother  with  these  presents  was  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  me,  simply  because  the 
mother  did  not  choose,  for  some  quixotic  reason  of 
her  own,  to  treat  me  with  confidence." 

"  Do  you  know  what  your  wicked  money  has  done  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Listen,"  said  Mary,  in  a  voice  low  with  pain,  and 
trembling  with  grief  that  was  difficult  to  suppress.  "  I 
have  toiled  and  saved  in  order  to  provide  my  son  with 
the  means  of  existence ;  I  have  lived  for  his  sake  on 
the  edge  of  starvation.  I  have  been  every  day,  since 
he  went  away,  hungry  for  his  sake.  Do  you  under- 
stand this  ? — that  I  have  felt  the  wet  of  the  pavement 
strike  at  me  because  he  needed  the  shillings  that  would 
repair  my  shoes.  You  do  not  know  how  it  has  been 
necessary  for  me  to  suffer  in  every  hour  of  my  life 
for  his  sake  ;  I  tell  you  now,  but  do  you  understand  ? 
And  I  was  happy.  I  sent  him  my  savings,  week  after 
week,  with  the  hope  in  my  heart  that  he  was  living  as 
I  myself  lived,  not  suffering,  but  safe  from  the  temp- 
tations which  come  with  money.  You  know,  for  I 

317 


The  Shadow 

told  you  so,  that  I  desired  to  deliver  him  and  protect 
him  from  the  dangers  of  money ;  it  was  for  the  sake 
of  his  soul  that  I  wished  him  to  be  braced  by  healthful 
poverty.  It  was  through  poverty  that  I  trusted  God 
would  deliver  him  from  the  perilous  inclinations  which 
destroyed  his  father  ;  and  now  his  father's  sister  has 
come  between  us,  between  the  soul  of  the  mother  and 
the  soul  of  her  son.  You  have  taught  him  treachery 
to  his  mother ;  you  have  taken  away  his  innocence 
and  given  him  guile.  You  have  stolen  his  honesty, 
and  given  him  deceit  in  its  place.  Yes  ;  you  have 
done  this,  and  I  know  now,  as  I  know  there  is  a  sky 
above  us,  that  one  day  before  the  throne  of  God  you 
will  have  to  give  account  of  my  son's  soul,  for  you 
have  thrown  it  into  hell." 

Her  voice  did  not  break  throughout  this  passionate 
speech,  but  as  she  proceeded,  tears  welled  thicker  and 
thicker  into  her  eyes,  so  that  at  the  end  she  was 
obliged  to  turn  away  her  head. 

Isabel  regarded  her  without  pity  and  without  repent- 
ance. She  felt  distaste  for  the  exaggerated  language 
of  her  sister-in-law,  and  she  had  contempt  for  the  senti- 
mental weakness  which  had  brought  this  scene  to  tears. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  coldly,  "  to  find  you  still  so 
very  painfully  self-righteous." 

Mary  turned  upon  her. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ? "  she  cried 
fiercely. 

Miss  Grafton  lifted  her  head.  "  Be  so  good  as  not 
to  shout  at  me." 

"  You  have  ruined  my  child,  you  have  destroyed  my 
son." 


Companions  in  Grief 

"  Can  you  be  more  coherent  ? " 

"  You  have  been  the  serpent  to  the  soul  of  my  son. 
You  have  tempted  him.  You  have  lured  him.  You 
have  destroyed  him.  Listen  !  I  will  show  you  your 
wicked  soul.  I  gave  my  life  to  stand  between  the 
world  and  the  soul  of  my  child  ;  I  set  myself  to  show 
him  the  love  of  God ;  I  had  one  object  in  all  my 
existence — to  make  him  so  conscious  of  God  that  he 
would  be  safe  from  the  world.  And  while  I  spent 
my  motherhood  in  this  devotion,  you  crept  secretly 
into  our  humble  life  and  turned  his  gaze  away  from 
God,  you  turned  it  to  the  world  ;  like  a  tempting 
Satan,  you  stole  secretly  between  the  mother  and  her 
young  child  and  dazzled  him  and  bewitched  him — 
deliberately !  Is  it  not  true  ?  Did  you  not  turn  his 
gaze  towards  the  world  ?  To  do  that  was  to  turn  it 
away  from  God.  I  say  to  you  that  you  have  played 
the  part  of  a  fiend.  His  ruin  lies  at  your  door.  His 
corrupted  innocence,  his  violated  purity,  his  dishonoured 
faith — they  are  the  work  of  your  soul.  He  himself 
shall  tell  you  so  ;  wait,  you  shall  hear  your  condem- 
nation from  his  own  lips.  One  day  you  shall  hear  it 
from  the  lips  of  God." 

The  violence  with  which  Mary  spoke,  she  who 
was  usually  so  calm  and  coldly  self-possessed,  made 
it  clear  to  Isabel  that  something  of  an  extraordi- 
nary nature  had  occurred.  She  tried  to  think  what 
it  could  be ;  in  the  midst  of  her  indignation  at 
being  thus  sermonised  and  vulgarly  denounced  she 
racked  her  brain  for  an  explanation  of  this  amazing 
violence. 

"  Where  is  Christopher  ?  "  she  demanded. 

319 


The   Shadow 

Mary  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
turned  away. 

"  You  have  spoken  to  me,"  said  Isabel,  "  in  a  manner 
quite  inexcusably  rude.  You  have  brought  absurd 
charges  against  me  ;  something,  I  suppose,  has 
happened  to  throw  your  mind  into  this  violent  and 
unreasonable  state.  What  is  it  ?  If  you  cannot  tell 
me,  let  Christopher  come  and  speak  for  himself." 

Mary  drew  her  hands  from  her  face ;  her  eyes 
were  tearless,  but  blurred  with  pain  ;  the  marks 
where  her  fingers  had  pressed  were  visible  on  her 
stricken  face.  The  tempest  of  passion  had  passed, 
leaving  her  calm,  with  the  terrible  death-like  repose 
of  despair. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  have  said  to  you."  She 
paused,  regarding  her  sister-in-law,  not  with  anger,  but 
with  dreadful  sorrow.  "  God  shall  judge  between  us. 
Christopher  is  in  prison." 

Isabel  started  ;  she  took  an  impulsive  step  towards 
Mary. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

Mary  told  the  story. 

"  But  we  must  go  to  him,"  cried  Isabel.  "He 
must  not  be  allowed  to  stay  where  he  is.  You  make 
too  much  of  this  matter.  It  is  disgusting  enough,  but 
it  is  not  a  crime.  In  the  streets  of  Paris,  among  the 
students  and  young  people,  an  arrest  is  a  common 
affair ;  it  is  nothing,  but  it  must  stop  at  that.  What 
have  you  been  doing — to  stay  here  weeping  over  his 
soul,  when  you  should  have  been  speaking  to  the 
contmissaire  !  How  futile  and  how  like  you  !  Where 
have  they  taken  him  ?  You  had  better  stay  here. 

3-0 


Companions  in  Grief 

I  will  go  alone.  It  is  not  tears  that  will  set  him  free, 
it  is  money." 

As  she  concluded  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Both  women  turned.  It  was  Isabel  who  cried 
"  Entrez "  in  a  loud  voice ;  she  was  thoroughly 
roused  and  energetic.  The  door  opened  and  a  man 
entered. 

He  appeared  to  be  taken  by  surprise  at  finding  two 
ladies  in  the  room  ;  he  stood  at  the  door  with  his  hand 
upon  the  handle.  He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty, 
with  a  noble  head,  and  a  face  that  was  marked  by 
suffering.  Over  his  arms  he  carried  the  robe  and 
hood  which  appeared  in  the  picture. 

" Mesdames"  he  said,  bowing,  "  I  was  told  down- 
stairs that  I  should  find  the  mother  of  Monsieur 
Grafton  in  this  room." 

Mary  went  forward. 

"  I  am  Gaston  Chabert,  the  master  of  Monsieur 
Grafton." 

Isabel  swept  towards  him  in  her  imperious  way. 

"  You  can  tell  us,  mattre,  about  this  unfortunate 
matter.  What  can  be  done  ?  " 

The  great  painter  rested  his  eyes,  which  seemed  to 
harden  as  they  looked  upon  the  mistress  of  Glevering  ; 
then  he  turned  to  the  pale  face  and  bowed  figure  of 
the  mother. 

"  Please  tell  us,"  repeated  Isabel.  "  What  can  we 
do  ? " 

"  Alas,  madame — nothing. 

"  Nothing  ? " 

Mary  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  the  painter. 
He  gently  extended  his  hand,  and  moving  a  step 

321  Y 


The  Shadow 

towards  her,  laid  it  upon  her  arm.     His  eyes  regarded 
her  with  a  profound  compassion. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  you  will  have 
need  of  courage." 

"  Please  tell  us  at  once,  maitre,  what  has  happened," 
cried  Isabel,  now  thoroughly  alarmed. 

Mary  said,  "  I  will  be  brave." 

"  I  have  just  come,  madame,"  said  the  painter,  who 
continued  to  address  himself  only  to  the  mother, 
"  from  the  tribunal.  I  bring  you  only  bad  news. 
The  case  has  been  tried  ;  it  is  decided." 

"  Then  I  can  see  him,  monsieur  ? " 

"  Alas,  madame,  that  is  impossible." 

"  But  you  don't  mean,"  exclaimed  Isabel,  "  that  he 
has  been  condemned  ?  " 

Chabert,  keeping  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  Mary, 
replied  : 

"  Yes,  madame,  he  has  been  sentenced." 

Mary  drew  a  sharp  breath,  and  turned  deadly  white. 

"  But  this  is  preposterous,"  cried  Isabel.  "  I  will 
go  at  once  to  the  Embassy." 

"  Nothing,  madame,  can  alter  the  decision  of  the 
tribunal.  I  addressed  Monsieur  le  President ;  I 
pleaded  for  Monsieur  Grafton.  The  rest  of  my  pupils 
implicated  in  this  disastrous  affair  have  been  ordered 
to  pay  only  the  amende.  Monsieur  Grafton,  because 
of  his  violence  to  the  agent  de police,  which  is  a  serious 
crime,  has  been  condemned  to  pay  an  amende  of  two 
hundred  francs,  and  has  been  sentenced  to  thirty 
days'  imprisonment." 

Mary  reeled  for  a  moment,  and  Chabert  held  her, 
guiding  her  to  a  chair. 

322 


Companions  in  Grief 

Isabel  stood  irresolute. 

"  It  seems  to  have  been  a  more  disgusting  matter 
than  I  was  given  to  understand,"  she  said  with 
emphasis.  Her  mind  was  reviewing  the  situation. 

"  You  must  be  brave,  madame,"  Chabert  said  to 
Mary. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Have  courage  ;  the  thirty  days  will  pass." 

In  her  grief  she  realised  her  impotence.  She  could 
do  nothing  to  help  her  son. 

"  Madame  must  wait  till  the  imprisonment  is  over." 

She  realised  that  she  could  not  even  wait  in  Paris 
for  her  son's  release.  She  was  penniless 

Isabel  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  One  can  do  nothing  for  him  ;  he  has  disgraced 
himself.  I  only  hope  it  will  not  appear  in  the  English 
newspapers." 

She  turned  at  the  door  and  looked  at  Mary. 

"  Isabel ! " 

Mary  was  on  her  feet. 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Help  me.  I  must  wait  till  he  comes  back.  I 
have  no  money." 

Isabel  surveyed  her  with  a  critical  scrutiny. 

"  You  can  really  do  no  good  by  waiting." 

Mary's  eyes  darkened. 

"  You  are  the  cause  of  this,  and  you  refuse  to  help 
me!" 

"  I  object  to  your  saying  that  I  am  the  cause  of  this 
humiliating  and  scandalous  affair.  It  is  grossly  imper- 
tinent. As  for  helping  you,  if  you  have  really 

conquered  your  superiority  for  Glevering "      She 

323  Y  2 


The  Shadow 

opened  the  bag  containing  her  purse.  "  What  amount 
do  you  require  ?  " 

Mary's  face  was  white  with  horror.  "You  are  the 
cause  of  his  ruin,  and  you  desert  him  !  God  have 
mercy  on  your  soul." 

In  spite  of  these  words,  uttered  with  the  deepest 
horror  of  a  pure  soul,  Isabel  asked  peremptorily : 

"  How  much  do  you  require  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

They  had  spoken  in  English,  a  language  which 
Chabert  did  not  understand.  He  thought  by  the 
action  of  Isabel  in  opening  her  purse  that  they  were 
speaking  of  the  fine. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  anxiety  about  the  amende" 
he  said.  "  I  have  paid  for  all  my  pupils ;  it  is 
nothing." 

"  I  wish  to  pay  the  fine,"  Isabel  said,  and  placed  two 
hundred  francs  on  the  table.  "  As  for  the  other 
matter,"  she  added,  "here  is  a  note  for  five  pounds 
which  you  may  do  what  you  like  with." 

"  Take  it  back,"  commanded  Mary. 

Isabel  confronted  her. 

"  I  throw  it  into  the  street  if  you  leave  it  there. 
Your  money  has  brought  him  to  this  ;  you  have 
suborned  his  soul  to  treachery,  infamy,  ruin.  You 
forsake  him  when  your  money  has  destroyed  him. 
There  is  a  curse  upon  it.  Take  it  back  !  Your  soul 
fills  me  with  horror." 

Isabel's  eyes  hardened.  She  replaced  the  note  in 
her  purse,  surveying  Mary  with  a  haughty  and  most 
hateful  contempt  ;  then,  with  a  slight  lifting  of  her 
head,  as  though  dismissing  her  sister-in-law  as  hopeless 

324 


Companions  in  Grief 

and  beneath  her  notice,  she  passed  out  of  the  room 
without  another  word. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Mary,  turning  impulsively  to 
Chabert  as  the  door  closed,  "  I  am  poor.  Help  me 
to  live  till  my  son  comes  back  to  me.  I  implore  you." 

"  I  too  am  poor,  but  I  will  help  you."  He  looked 
away.  As  he  did  so  he  started,  uttering  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise. 

He  was  looking  at  Christopher's  Madonna. 


3-'5 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  FALL  OF  THE  DARK 

FOR  thirty  days  Mary  Grafton  lived  in  the  studio. 
A  sum  equivalent  to  fifty  pounds  was  placed  in 
her  hands  by  Gaston  Chabert  on  the  third  day  after 
his  visit.  She  lived  upon  the  sale  of  the  Madonna. 

This  picture,  which  expressed  Christopher's  emo- 
tional repentance  and  which  testified  to  the  presence 
in  his  heart  of  some  vestigial  sense  of  his  mother's 
devotion — this  picture,  too,  with  which  he  had  hoped 
to  win  applause,  and  which  he  intended  to  present  to 
his  mother  in  a  cloud  of  glory — was  the  means  of 
that  mother's  support  during  the  bitter  days  of  his 
imprisonment. 

Chabert  endeavoured  to  comfort  Mary  by  telling 
her  that  the  picture  had  been  purchased  by  one  of 
the  first  art  dealers  in  Paris  ;  that  it  was  to  be  repro- 
duced, and  that  on  each  of  the  reproductions,  which 
would  surely  be  very  numerous,  Christopher  was  to 
receive  a  royalty. 

"  He  is  my  best  pupil,"  said  the  great  master ;  "  but 
until  I  saw  the  Madonna  I  did  not  know  his  promise. 
Madame,  your  son  is  destined  to  greatness." 

During  the  thirty  days  of  her  waiting,  this  pure  and 
noble  spirit  recovered  the  fulness  of  her  faith  in  God ; 

326 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

she  ceased  to  think  of  the  horror  of  her  son's  sin. 
She  considered  his  youth,  more  than  all  else,  she 
assured  herself  that  the  Divine  Father  yearned  to- 
wards this  poor  and  prodigal  son.  It  was  the  thought 
of  divine  forgiveness  which  melted  the  frozen  grief 
in  her  heart. 

But  the  shock  had  done  its  work.  Weakened  by 
the  severest  privations,  her  health  already  undermined 
by  the  hardships  she  had  endured  for  Christopher's 
sake,  and  unfitted  by  the  extreme  purity  of  her  nature 
to  sustain  such  assaults  upon  her  peace  as  this  fall 
and  disgrace  of  her  heart's  love,  the  noble  woman 
had  received  a  wound  from  which  recovery  was 
impossible. 

She  could  think  now  with  the  sweetest  charity  ot 
the  sin  which  had  struck  her  death-blow,  but  it  was 
not  in  her  power  to  heal  the  wound.  She  had  nothing 
in  her  heart  save  love  and  forgiveness,  but  the  heart 
was  broken  ;  unknown  to  herself,  she  was  a  dying 
woman  ;  she  had  begun  to  die  when  she  first  looked 
at  the  Madonna  and  realised  its  false  holiness. 

On  the  day  of  Christopher's  release,  who  knew 
nothing  of  his  mother's  presence  in  Paris,  she  waited 
for  him  in  the  studio.  Chabert  had  put  a  stop  to  the 
festivity  with  which  his  pupils  desired  to  celebrate 
Christopher's  freedom  at  the  prison  gates.  He  went 
himself  to  the  gaol,  and  as  he  left  it  in  a  cab,  with 
Christopher  at  his  side,  told  the  young  man  that  his 
mother  awaited  him  in  the  studio. 

"  She  knows  everything  ?  "  asked  the  startled  youth. 

"  Everything." 

That  was  all.  For  the  rest,  Chabert  spoke  of  the 
327 


The  Shadow 

sale  of  the  Madonna  and  prophesied  a  career  for  his 
pupil. 

Christopher  was  a  changed  man.  He  was  not 
religious  ;  his  heart  was  not  softened.  He  had  not 
flung  himself  down  in  an  agony  of  repentance  and 
remorse.  But  his  boyhood  lay  as  far  behind  him  as 
his  infancy  ;  he  was  a  man. 

His  will  was  strengthened  ;  his  mind  was  hardened. 
He  thought  of  his  sin,  not  with  humiliation  and 
sorrow,  but  with  a  profound  disgust,  which  was  in 
the  nature  of  nausea.  He  hated  himself  as  a  fool. 
When  he  took  leave  of  his  master,  who  remained  in 
the  cab,  he  showed  his  first  signs  of  mental  disquiet. 

"  Your  mother,"  said  Chabert,  holding  his  hand, 
"loves  you,  my  dear  Grafton,  as  I  hope  the  good 
God  loves  me.  She  is  good  ;  she  is  adorable." 

The  porter  and  his  wife  were  standing  in  the 
vestibule. 

"  You  have  come  back  then,  monsieur  ?  I  am  very 
glad  of  it,"  said  the  man. 

"  It  is  nothing  ;  you  will  soon  forget  about  it,"  said 
the  woman.  "  Madame,  your  mother,  was  sad,  but 
she  is  happy  now.  Have  a  good  courage." 

"  But  yes,"  said  the  man,  "  there  is  no  need  for 
fear." 

Christopher  went  slowly  up  the  stairs.  His  heart 
was  beating  with  uneven  energy.  His  thoughts  were 
distracted.  He  wondered  how  he  should  open  the 
door,  what  he  should  say,  how  he  should  manage  to 
look  into  his  mother's  eyes.  He  was  conscious  of  the 
awkwardness  of  the  situation. 

A  movement  above  caused  him  to  raise  his  eyes. 
328 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

The  door  of  his  studio  stood  open.  His  mother  was 
standing  just  inside.  As  he  looked  up  she  extended 
her  hands  towards  him. 

Christopher  ran  to  her.  The  arms  closed  about 
him  ;  he  seemed  to  be  clinging  to  her ;  they  were 
quite  silent.  Neither  wept  ;  neither  spoke.  There 
was  extraordinary  energy  in  the  straining  pressure  of 
his  arms.  His  embrace  said  everything. 

Mary  was  saying,  "  God  is  good." 

Christopher  was  saying,  "  I  have  killed  her." 

It  was  the  sight  of  her  face,  all  stricken  and  drawn 
and  haggard,  in  spite  of  its  efforts  to  express  a 
vvelcome,  which  had  filled  him  with  remorse  ;  he  saw 
his  crime  in  his  mother's  face  ;  he  saw  the  abasement 
of  his  fall  and  the  ignominy  of  the  prison  in  the  eyes 
which  had  regarded  him  with  love  and  tenderness 
when  he  uttered  his  first  prayer  to  God  It  was  not 
love  for  her  so  much  as  horror  at  himself,  which  had 
hastened  him  up  the  stairs  at  the  first  glimpse  of  her 
face.  He  did  not  fly  to  those  opening  arms  so  much 
to  embrace  her  as  to  hide  his  eyes  from  the  sight  of 
her  woe ;  and  now,  pressing  her  to  him,  his  head 
bowed  upon  her  shoulder,  he  had  only  one  thought  in 
his  mind,  one  branding  realisation  burning  into  his 
brain — "  I  have  killed  her." 

"  All  is  well,"  she  said,  very  tenderly ;  "  you  have 
come  back  to  me,  Christopher,  I  am  satisfied." 

He  could  make  no  response  ;  he  did  not  even  dare 
to  raise  his  head,  so  greatly  did  he  dread  to  look  into 
her  face. 

"  It  shall  be  as  if  you  had  never  left  me,"  she  went 
on,  lifting  one  of  her  hands  to  lay  it  lovingly  upon 

329 


The  Shadow 

his  head.  "  We  will  always  be  together  now.  Life 
will  be  happy  for  us ;  everything  that  has  happened 
since  we  separated  from  each  other  must  be  forgotten. 
Christopher,  my  son,  I  am  so  happy,  so  happy  now 
you  are  in  my  arms.  God  is  good  to  me." 

When  at  last  he  could  find  words  he  said  hoarsely, 
"  I  hate  myself.  I  can  never  forget." 

It  was  not  without  an  effort  that  he  was  able  to  free 
her  from  his  arms  and  bring  himself  to  look  at  her. 
His  first  glance  after  this  embrace  was  furtive — there 
was  in  it  some  dreadful  quality  of  the  prison. 

He  began  presently  to  make  excuses  for  his  con- 
duct, while  she  remained  seated  at  the  end  of  the 
room,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  grave  eyes 
following  all  his  movements  with  a  quiet  peaceful- 
ness.  He  searched  among  the  boxes  on  the  writing- 
table  and  found  himself  a  cigarette,  which  he  lighted 
in  the  midst  of  a  sentence,  and  which  he  smoked  with 
feverish  quickness  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
explaining  and  excusing. 

He  had  not  been  altogether  bad,  he  assured  her ; 
he  had  been  more  a  fool  than  a  scoundrel  ;  as  for  this 
miserable  ball  which  had  done  the  mischief,  he  wished 
her  to  know  two  things.  First,  he  had  not  wanted  to 
go  ;  he  had  stood  out  against  the  persuasions  of  his 
friends  for  hours — for  half  a  day  in  fact ;  it  was  only 
when  they  besieged  him  in  his  room,  and  simply 
refused  to  take  a  No,  that,  as  much  to  get  rid  of 
them  as  anything  else,  he  had  at  last  foolishly  yielded 
to  their  pressure.  The  second  thing  he  wished  her  to 
know — that  she  might  see  how  he  was  not  altogether 
bad — was  this.  When  he  arrived  at  the  wretched  ball 

330 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

he  found  how  bad  and  hideous  the  thing  was  going  to 
be  ;  looking  round  the  place  he  was  amazed  to  see 
two  young  girls,  one  of  them  English  and  very 
beautiful,  sitting  in  evident  dismay  among  the  riot. 
He  thought  of  his  mother ;  he  walked  over  to  these 
ladies  and  advised  them  to  go  home  ;  they  had  come, 
he  discovered,  in  complete  ignorance  of  the  trae  nature 
of  the  festivity. 

"  They  thanked  me  and  implored  me  to  help  them 
out  of  the  place,  for  they  were  afraid  to  move.  I 
assisted  them,  saw  them  into  a  carriage,  and  for  a 
minute  I  hesitated  as  to  going  back.  But  I  had  left 
my  things  there,  one  of  my  friends  was  at  my  elbow, 
and  like  a  fool  I  returned.  But  I  want  you  to  see  that 
I  did  at  least  do  something  to  save  young  and  innocent 
ladies  from  the  contagion  of  the  scene.  Bad  as  I  am, 
or  foolish  as  I  am,  at  least — and  it  is  all  owing  to  you — 
I  have  reverence  for  innocence." 

Poor  boy !  he  did  not  see  how  every  word  that  he 
uttered  lowered  him  and  made  his  repentance  a  pitiable 
piece  of  sentimentalism.  Qui  s'exctise  s*  accuse.  Never 
was  the  dictum  truer  of  any  apologia  than  his.  He 
excused  his  sin  to  accuse  his  soul.  It  was  a  confession 
of  total  inability  to  apprehend  the  religious  life.  The 
note  of  vanity  sounding  through  it  was  dreadful,  was 
shocking,  was  revolting.  To  the  ordinary  good  person 
of  ordinary  refinement,  this  confession  would  have 
sounded  pitiable  enough,  but  to  a  soul  so  perfected 
and  so  divinely  poised  as  his  mother,  it  sounded  like  a 
knell,  tolling  the  death  of  all  her  hopes. 

For  a  week  they  remained  in  Paris.  Christopher 
busied  himself  about  obtaining  commissions  for  pic- 

331 


The  Shadow 

tures,  and  was  so  set  upon  this  work,  that  he  did  not 
observe  the  increasing  sadness  of  his  mother,  who 
was  very  literally  dying  of  a  broken  heart.  He  spoke 
cheerfully  of  the  future,  and  never  referred  to  his 
ignominy. 

They  arrived  in  London,  and  Mary  immediately 
took  up  the  business  of  her  life.  No  news  of  the 
incident  at  the  students'  ball  had  reached  the  ears  of 
their  friends.  Christopher  was  greeted  as  a  man  who 
had  begun  to  distinguish  himself  by  the  Grindleys,  and 
by  Mauritius  and  Annabel  Smith.  He  saw  Augustus 
Nuttle  privately  and  told  him  something  of  the  affair 
at  the  fateful  ball,  concluding  his  narrative  with 
anxious  inquiries  touching  Glevering.  Mr.  Nuttle 
could  only  report  that  Isabel  had  written  a  letter  to 
him  from  Vienna  saying  that  she  was  disappointed 
in  Christopher  and  did  not  at  present  intend  to  assist 
him  any  further  in  his  studies. 

"  I  fear,"  said  Augustus,  not  without  selfish  dis- 
pleasure, "that  you  have  had  the  last  of  the  golden 
eggs.  I  will  not  call  Miss  Grafton  a  goose,  nor  do  I 
insinuate  that  you  have  killed  her.  But  the  eggs  are 
evidently  being  laid  elsewhere  ;  you  are  not  likely  to 
find  any  more  in  '  the  roost  of  eminence ' — nbi  reddunt 
ova  columbae,  which  means  that  Miss  Grafton  is  a 
pigeon." 

Mauritius  and  Annabel,  who  were  quick  to  perceive 
that  something  of  a  grave  nature  had  occurred  during 
Mary's  visit  to  Paris,  and  who  were  shocked  immeasur- 
ably by  the  terrible  change  in  her  appearance,  did  their 
best  to  encourage  Christopher  in  the  belief  that  he  was 
a  great  painter  destined  to  immortal  glory. 

332 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

"  To  prove  my  faith  in  you,"  cried  Mauritius,  "  I  give 
you  a  commission.  Paint  a  portrait  of  my  beloved 
Stupefaction  on  a  canvas  which  I  can  conveniently 
carry  back  to  Selangor,  and  I  plank  down  twenty 
guineas,  the  picture  to  act  as  a  receipt !  " 

Thus  stimulated — and  no  one  could  have  answered 
quicker  to  the  flattery  of  his  genius,  which  was  one  of 
the  great  reasons  for  his  success — Christopher  set  to 
work  in  the  eyry.  He  was  soon  complaining  of  the 
bad  light  and  the  general  inconvenience. 

Mary  went  about  the  sordid  streets  doing  her  work, 
and  Christopher  painted  at  the  garret  window.  Some- 
times he  was  so  restless  and  fretted  at  night  thpt, 
weary  as  she  was,  Mary  would  go  with  him  to  a 
concert. 

One  day,  when  he  was  finishing  the  portrait  of 
Annabel,  that  good  little  woman  said  to  him,  "  Do 
you  notice  how  pale  and  worn  your  dear  mother  is 
looking  ? " 

"  She  works  too  hard,"  he  replied. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing,  I  think,  to  persuade 
her  to  see  a  doctor.  I  have  tried,  but  your  influence 
is  so  much  greater.  Do  try  and  persuade  her." 

"  It  is  perfectly  monstrous  that  she  should  slave  as 
she  does  ;  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  stick  all  day 
at  my  painting.  I  have  the  ambition  to  provide  for 
her ;  it  is  certain  I  shall  succeed  later  on,  but  it  is 
always  difficult  at  the  beginning.  I  will  certainly 
insist  that  she  should  see  a  doctor." 

When  Mary  came  home  that  night,  Christopher  said 
to  her,  "  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  live  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood ;  it  is  unhealthy  and  depressing ;  it  affects 

333 


The  Shadow 

my  nerves,  so  I  know.  If  I  get  on,  we  must  move  to 
a  better  part  of  the  town,  but  in  the  meantime  I  think 
you  ought  to  see  a  doctor." 

She  said  that  there  was  no  need. 

"  He  would  give  you  a  tonic." 

She  made  no  answer  and  was  busy  preparing  tea. 

"  Everybody  gets  run  down  at  times  and  needs  a 
tonic.  I  wish  you  would  see  a  doctor." 

She  turned   and  smiled   towards  him.     "  Am  I 
looking  very  old,  then  ?  " 

He  rose  and  went  over  to  her.  "  See  a  doctor,"  he 
said,  with  his  hands  on  her  arms,  "  to  please  me.  Ah, 
mother,  when  I  think  of  all  you  have  been  to  me " 

"  Oh,  hush,  my  dear,  I  have  satisfied  myself  in 
loving  you." 

"  You  are  the  best,  the  noblest  of  women,"  he  ex- 
claimed fervently,  "and  to  please  me,  who  love  you 
so — more  than  you  imagine — you  will  see  a  doctoi 
and  get  well." 

Christopher  was  successful  in  his  persuasion  ;  Mar> 
promised  to  see  the  parish  doctor  in  a  day  or  two 
She  came  into  the  room  one  evening  with  a  bottle  o) 
medicine  in  her  hand.  Christopher's  anxiety  was 
allayed. 

He  worked  hard  at  his  picture ;  the  bad  light 
troubled  him,  he  was  fretted  by  the  narrow  circum- 
stances of  the  room  ;  nevertheless  he  was  not  unhappy. 
In  his  work  lay,  for  the  present,  his  salvation  ;  absorbed 
by  his  art,  the  wandering  and  dangerous  inclinations 
of  his  nature  were  without  power  over  his  will  ;  and 
he  was  tremendously  in  earnest  As  the  saints  so 
lose  themselves  in  the  thought  of  heaven,  that  they 

334 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

are  safe  against  the  assaults  of  the  world,  so  Christopher 
lost  himself  in  the  thought  of  success  and  was  safe 
against  the  temptations  and  beguilements  of  evil.  It 
is  not  the  money-seeker  who  is  vain  or  immoral  or 
profligate  ;  and  yet  there  can  be  scarcely  a  condition 
of  mind  more  opposed  to  God.  One  can  keep  all  the 
commandments  in  a  very  centre  of  hell.  Mary  knew 
the  condition  of  her  son's  mind.  She  did  not  speak 
to  him  about  his  attitude  towards  life  nor  seek  to  force 
him  unwillingly  towards  God.  Every  day  made  her 
feel  that  she  could  do  nothing  ;  to  change  her  son's 
mind  was  like  changing  the  colour  of  his  eyes.  Only 
God  can  perform  miracles.  She  prayed,  and  waited. 

One  evening  as  Christopher  sat  reading  a  biography 
of  the  Tuscan  artists,  while  his  mother,  reclining  on  a 
chair-sofa,  the  gift  of  kind  Annabel,  employed  herself 
with  needle-work,  they  were  both  suddenly  roused  by 
the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps  on  the  stair  outside. 
Christopher  looked  up  expectantly,  gladly,  closing  his 
book.  "  Visitors  !  "  he  said.  Mary  lowered  her  needle- 
work to  her  lap,  and  listened.  She  was  too  tired  to 
welcome  an  interruption. 

The  door  opened,  and  Madame  Tilly  entered  the 
room  with  eagerness  and  vivacity,  followed  at  a  slower 
and  more  impressive  pace  by  the  grave  and  mysterious 
Nico. 

"  We  have  come,"  cried  Madame  Tilly,  "  to  see  our 
dear  friend,  and  to  do  homage  to  the  great  artist." 

While  she  embraced  Mary,  Nico  took  Christopher's 
hand  and  said,  "  We  have  heard  of  your  fame,  which 
I  foreshadowed  in  your  boyhood." 

These  people,  so  difficult  to  understand,  who  earned 
335 


The  Shadow 

their  living  in  a  manner,  if  not  disreputable,  at  least 
thoroughly  questionable,  and  who  nevertheless  pre- 
served in  their  hearts  unusual  kindness,  had  come  to 
renew  acquaintance  with  Mary  Grafton  out  of  the 
purest  sympathy.  From  the  go-ahead  son  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Grindley,  who  was  connected  with  the  advertise- 
ment side  of  journalism,  they  had  heard  of  Mary's 
terrible  state  of  health.  His  report  of  Christopher's 
skill  as  a  painter  had  served  them  with  an  excuse 
for  coming  to  see  what  they  might  do  for  the  mother. 
It  was  the  interest  which  Mary's  pure  heart  had 
created  in  their  minds  that  brought  them  to  Trinity 
Street. 

Nico  announced  that  he  wanted  a  picture  of  his 
wife,  and  another  of  himself,  to  hang  in  the  rooms  in 
Bond  Street.  It  was  impossible  for  either  of  them  to 
give  sittings,  the  increasing  demands  of  their  important 
professions  precluded  such  an  idea.  But  he  suggested 
that  Christopher  should  make  rough  studies  of  them 
there  and  then,  and  perhaps  on  subsequent  evenings, 
and  working  on  the  portraits  by  day,  should  allow  his 
imagination  the  freest  scope. 

"  For,"  concluded  the  impressive  Nico,  "  I  am  not 
seeking  photographs,  but  pictorial  representations  of 
our  spiritual  natures.  I  suggest  to  you  something 
allegorical,  something  which  will  induce  our  clients  to 
yield  their  wills  to  the  efficacy  of  our  suggestions." 

Soon  after  this  commission  was  given,  Nico  found 
himself  one  evening  alone  with  Christopher. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  "  about  your 
mother.  I  am  a  doctor,  not  of  the  body,  but  of  the 
soul.  The  soul  is  the  life,  the  body  merely  the 

336 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

machine.  I  am  concerned  about  the  soul  of  your 
mother.  I  am  clairvoyant.  My  vision  penetrates  be- 
neath appearance.  The  soul  of  your  mother  is  in  peril." 

Christopher  stopped  working,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  I  tell  you,"  continued  Nico  in  a  very  ghostly 
manner,  "  that  the  Angel  of  Death  inhabits  this  room. 
I  can  feel  its  presence ;  all  my  senses  are  aware  of  it. 
And  on  the  face  of  your  mother  the  shadow  has 
already  fallen." 

Christopher  swallowed  in  his  throat,  and  felt  himselt 
grow  cold. 

"  It  is  not  sickness,  it  is  not  disease,  that  troubles 
her,"  said  Nico,  folding  his  arms.  "  Nor  is  it  a 
longing  for  the  fuller  and  more  wonderful  existence 
which  awaits  the  spirit  after  death.  It  is  the  most 
terrible,  the  most  wasting,  the  most  destructive  of 
death's  agonies — a  ceasing  of  desire  for  life,  a  numb 
and  passionless  acquiescence  in  the  thought  of  ex- 
tinction." 

Christopher  turned  to  his  work  again.  His  heart 
was  beginning  to  hammer.  His  breathing  was 
troubled.  He  found  that  his  hand  shook. 

"  Some  agony  of  the  heart,"  said  Nico,  "  has 
brought  your  mother  to  this — that  she  has  no  wish 
but  for  endless  sleep,  no  desire  but  for  cessation  of 
being,  for  annihilation.  Now  it  is  for  you,  whom  she 
loves  above  all  earthly  things,  to  restore  in  her  soul 
enthusiasm  for  existence.  You  must  do  that,  or  she 
will  die.  You  will  wake  one  morning  to  find  that 
she  is  not  stirring.  There  will  be  a  silence  here.  You 
will  go  to  her  room.  You  will  think  that  she  is  still 

sleeping  ;  you  will  find  that  she " 

337  z 


The  Shadow 

"  For  pity's  sake !  " 

Christopher  stood  in  front  of  him,  breathing  hard) 
his  face  rigid  and  flushed. 

"  It  is  my  wish,"  continued  Nico,  "  and  the  wish  ol 
Madame  Tilly  to  help  you,  You  must  take  your 
mother  away.  We  have  friends,  clients  of  both  of  us, 
who  will  receive  you  for  a  nominal  payment.  They 
keep  a  vegetarian  sanatorium  in  Rivermouth.  Take 
your  mother  there  as  soon  as  possible.  Let  the 
change  of  air,  the  freedom  from  depressing  work,  the 
scent  of  the  pines,  the  sight  of  the  sea,  do  their  work, 
but  above  all  things  make  your  love  the  great  re- 
storer of  her  vital  force.  Convince  her  that  you  love 
her." 

Christopher  was  thoroughly  roused.  The  thought 
of  death  once  implanted  in  his  mind  took  root  there 
and  filled  him  with  a  very  terror  of  apprehension.  He 
could  not  rest  until  he  had  got  his  mother  out  of 
London. 

The  words  of  the  'palmist  had  hung  a  weight  of 
guilt  upon  his  heart  He  could  not  look  into  his 
mother's  face  without  remorse.  "  I  have  killed  her," 
he  said  in  an  agony  of  bitterness. 

She  was  quite  compliant.  She  went  to  see  her  slum 
friends  for  the  last  time,  for  the  last  time  knelt  in  the 
mission-church,  bade  good-bye  to  the  Grindleys,  who 
wept  at  parting  with  her,  and  took  leave  of  poor 
timorous  Miss  Maffey  with  an  expression  of  gratitude 
for  her  kindness  which  was  charged  with  the  sense  of 
finality. 

The  establishment  recommended  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dobbs  was  an  impecunious  and  shabby  place  at  some 

338 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

distance  from  the  sea.  Health  formed  the  excuse  for 
lack  of  comfort.  The  thin  furniture,,  the  absence  of 
carpets,  the  inescapable  draughts,  the  want  of  refine- 
ment at  the  table — these  things  were  reckoned  part 
of  the  treatment.  For  three  weeks  they  suffered  the 
horrors  of  this  place,  and  then  Christopher  deter- 
mined on  heroic  action.  Excellent  good  news  had 
reached  him  from  Paris  concerning  the  success  of  the 
Madonna.  He  was  not  only  well  supplied  with 
money,  but  the  art  dealers  had  commissioned  him 
to  paint  another  Madonna,  and  informed  him  that 
they  would  be  glad  to  have  the  refusal  of  all  his 
religious  pictures. 

"We  will  go  away  from  this  dreadful  place,"  he 
said  to  his  mother,  and  set  himself  to  find  a  happier 
lodging. 

By  good  fortune  he  found  rooms  in  a  charming 
house,  high  on  the  cliffs,  and  near  the  pine-woods, 
where  he  could  paint  with  a  good  light  till  late  in  the 
evening.  Thither  they  removed  their  few  belongings 
and  established  themselves,  after  a  month  of  bad 
vegetarian  cookery  and  the  daggers  of  most  pitiless 
draughts. 

But  the  only  change  visible  in  his  mother's  face 
was  the  deepening  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  now  began  for  Christopher  the  terrible  drama 
of  his  remorse.  He  was  condemned  by  his  own 
success  to  paint  Madonnas.  He  could  have  no  model 
but  his  mother. 

Contemplate  and  consider  what  it  was  for  his  young 
heart,  just  emerging  from  the  rush  of  impatient  youth 
and  just  beginning  to  experience  the  burden  of  re- 

339  z  2 


The  Shadow 

morse,  to  be  condemned  to  paint  all  day  long,  and 
day  after  day,  the  fading  beauty  and  declining  strength 
of  the  love  that  he  himself  had  slain. 

Not  only  this,  he  must  paint  his  mother  as  the 
Madonna.  For  ever  he  must  have  before  him  the 
reminder  of  that  night  when  he  had  plunged  from 
wavering  innocence  and  half-hearted  goodness  into 
the  abyss  of  blasphemy  and  sin.  For  him  the 
Madonna  awoke  no  tender  thoughts  of  maternity. 
She  grew  every  day,  with  a  frightfully  increasing 
emphasis,  the  hateful  reminder  and  the  mocking 
memory  of  his  crime,  which  was  unalterable.  He 
was  like  a  felon  condemned  to  contemplate  the  body 
he  has  murdered. 

He  could  earn  his  bread  in  no  other  way,  save  by 
perpetuating  the  memory  of  his  crime,  by  branding 
himself  deeper  and  deeper  with  the  guilt  of  his 
mother's  blood. 

He  sent  to  Paris  other  pictures,  pictures  of  children 
playing  at  the  edge  of  the  sea,  pictures  of  peasants 
returning  from  the  fields,  pictures  of  sailors  launching 
their  boats  and  getting  in  their  nets.  It  was  of  no 
avail.  These  pictures  were  either  returned,  or  fetched 
but  a  starvation  price.  He  could  not  escape  from 
his  doom.  He  had  established  a  reputation  by  his 
Madonna,  and  in  one  form  or  another  he  must  paint 
Madonnas,  if  he  would  live,  apparently  to  his  life's 
end.  He  was  to  live  out  of  the  religion  he  neither 
understood  nor  greatly  reverenced,  the  religion  which 
he  had  outraged,  denied,  and  made  an  instrument  for 
the  destruction  of  his  mother. 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  exaggerate  the  torture  to 
340 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

which  he  was  put  by  the  necessities  of  existence. 
Every  fresh  Madonna  to  which  he  set  himself  was  a 
new  agony  of  the  old  remorse. 

They  lived  in  this  manner  for  two  years,  Christopher 
hiding  his  remorse  from  his  mother,  and  Mary  devoting 
herself  to  his  comfort  and  happiness. 

One  evening  as  they  sat  together  on  the  cliffs,  Mary 
looked  up  from  a  new  French  book  which  he  had 
brought  her  that  very  day,  and  asked,  almost  with  a 
glad  eagerness,  "  Do  you  know  this  book  ? — have  you 
read  it?" 

"  No." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  It  is 
quite  beautiful.  Let  me  read  you  a  little  passage : 

" '  Corot  disait  que  pour  saisir  1'ame  et  la  beautd  d'un 
paysage,  il  fallait  savoir  s'asseoir ;  je  crois  que  j'ai  rdussi  a 
savoir  m'asseoir  pour  regarder  la  vie.  Du  point  ou  je  me 
suis  place'e  apres  bien  des  tatonnements,  elle  m'apparait  belle 
et  bonne,  oui,  bonne.  .  .  .  Je  vois  1'homme,  non  plus  comme 
un  aveugle  en  liberte",  mais  comme  un  co-ope'rateur  de  1'ceuvre 
divine,  immortel  comme  elle.  Je  le  vois  marchant  en  pleine 
e'ternite',  conduit  vers  des  buts  lointains  et  glorieux.'  " x 

She  did  not  turn  to  him  as  she  concluded  this 
passage,  but  raising  her  head,  let  her  eyes  travel 

1  "  Corot  said  that  to  seize  the  spirit  and  beauty  of  a  land- 
scape it  is  necessary  to  know  how  to  sit  down  ;  I  think  I  have 
discovered  how  to  place  myself  for  a  faithful  contemplation  of 
life.  From  the  point  where  I  now  stand  after  long  gropings, 
life  appears  to  me  a  thing  beautiful  and  good  ;  yes,  good.  ...  I 
see  humanity  no  longer  as  a  blind  man,  punished  with  the  gift 
of  a  freedom  which  terrifies  him,  but  as  a  worker  with  God  in  a 
destiny  as  immortal  as  life  itself.  I  see  humanity  moving  in 
the  midst  of  eternity,  guided  towards  great  ends,  distant  and 
sublime." — Sur  la  Branche,  by  Pierre  de  Coulevain. 

341 


The  Shadow 

beyond  the  shimmering  floor  of  ocean  and  rest  with 
a  new  composure  of  resignation  upon  the  soft  and 
misty  line  of  the  horizon,  which  was  not  an  end  but 
a  beginning  of  unimagined  glory. 

"  I  think  I  have  succeeded,"  she  said,  "  in  knowing 
where  to  place  myself  for  the  true  contemplation 
of  life.  Things  which  troubled  me  dreadfully  no 
longer  have  power  over  my  thoughts  to  depress  me, 
things  which  shook,  horrified,  and  bewildered  me,  now 
only  pain  me  very  little.  It  is  not  looking  towards, 
but  looking  outwards  from  eternity  that  makes  it 
possible  for  one  to  contemplate  the  life  of  this  world 
without  terror  and  distress — the  thought  of  eternity, 
which  is  inhabited  by  the  mercy  and  goodness  of 
God."  She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "  You  are  a 
painter  ;  you  will  understand  Corot's  '  savoir  sasseoir! 
If  it  is  necessary,  Christopher,  in  order  to  paint  a 
picture,  that  one  should  know  where  to  seat  oneself, 
how  much  more  necessary  in  the  greater  business  of 
making  a  destiny,  living  a  life,  that  one  should  know 
where  to  stand  for  a  true  knowledge  of  the  under- 
taking. Do  you  feel  that  ?  It  is  very  reasonable  and 
simple,  is  it  not  ?  I  should  like  to  know  that  you 
feel  some  point  of  view  is  necessary.  '  Whilst  we 
live  without  God  in  the  world,'  says  Fenelon,  '  we  are 
the  continual  sport  of  fortune.'  We  are  like  an  artist 
sitting  down  to  paint  he  knows  not  what ;  a  writer 
sitting  down  to  compose  without  purpose,  object,  or 
intention  ;  even  like  a  woman  with  needle,  cotton, 
and  material,  who,  when  one  asks,  '  What  do  you 
make  ? '  replies,  '  I  do  not  know.'  To  be  rational 
we  must  have  some  definition  of  life.  And  only  two 

342 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

definitions  are  possible.  Either  it  is  God,  or  it  is 
Mammon." 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  without  looking  at  her,  "  if  I  do 
not  speak  of  religion,  it  is  because  I  cannot  forget  the 
past.  But  I  believe  in  God.  I  hope  for  His  mercy." 

This  was  the  last  time  they  ever  spoke  intimately 
of  the  great  concernment  of  human  life.  Perhaps  she 
had  a  premonition  that  her  end  was  near,  and  would 
leave  in  his  soul  one  tender  thought  of  the  reasonable- 
ness of  religion  and  would  take  with  her  into  eternity 
one  sweet  hope  that  he  was  turning  his  face  towards 
the  peace  of  God.  No  longer,  in  the  phrase  of  George 
Sand,  tourment/  des  choses  divines>  this  lovely  character 
rested  in  the  shadow  of  that  great  Hope  and  was  at 
peace  in  resignation  to  the  divine  Will.  The  world 
which  had  frightened  her  and  darkened  the  radiance 
of  her  spiritual  life  with  fear  and  terror,  had  grown  at 
last  to  be  something  still  held  in  the  love  of  an  infinite 
Father  and  tended  by  His  inexhaustible  mercy,  some- 
thing which  could  neither  hurt  nor  destroy  her  child 
without  the  will  of  her  Father  which  was  in  heaven. 
This  was  the  secret  of  her  peace.  She  had  considered 
that  her  love,  her  providence,  her  constant  care  and 
clinging  presence  were  necessary  to  the  safety  and 
security  of  that  child ;  she  knew  now  that  of  herself 
she  could  do  nothing  against  the  world,  but  that  in 
the  love  and  mercy  of  God  was  the  one  rock  of  her 
defence.  She  uttered  her  prayer  to  God,  and  left  to 
the  tender  mercy  of  her  heavenly  Father  the  final  and 
glorious  answer  to  her  wistful  supplication — the  salva- 
tion of  her  son.  Only  God  could  answer  that  prayer. 

In  the  book  which  he  had  brought  her,  but  which 
343 


The  Shadow 

he  had  not  read,  she  found  this  description  of  a  picture, 
which  made  a  profound  impression  on  her  mind  : 

"  Centre  un  ciel  noir,  traverse*  d'e"clairs,  se  dresse  une  grande 
croix  sur  laquelle  est  cloud  un  etre  humain  aux  traits  rudes, 
mal  de"grossis.  C'est  le  mauvais  larron.  II  est  la,  agonisant, 
les  cheveux  souleve's  par  un  vent  d'orage,  mais  point  seul. 
Une  femme  du  peuple  a  les  bras  autour  de  son  cou,  les  levres 
sur  les  levres.  Pour  atteindre  sa  bouche,  elle  a  du  se  hisser  sur 
sa  monture,  un  petit  ane  blanc  conduit  par  un  enfant  qui, 
honteux,  s'appuie  contre  le  bois  infamant.  Est  ce  1'amour  de 
Montmartre,  de  Saint  Ouen,  de  Saint  Lazare?  .  .  .  Je  ne  sais, 
mais  dans  ce  baiser,  dans  ce  corps  de  femme  tendu,  exhausse* 
jusqu'au  crucifie',  il  y  a  une  force  de  tendresse  maternelle  qui 
fait  croire  au  pardon."  1 

One  morning  as  Christopher  was  beginning  a  new 
Madonna,  the  memory  recurred  to  his  mind  of  the 
beautiful  English  girl  whom  he  had  rescued  from  the 
students'  ball.  It  was  a  memory  which  came  to  him 
frequently  when  the  horror  of  that  awful  night  pressed 
upon  his  soul.  At  the  beginning  of  a  new  Madonna, 
or  when  he  was  struggling  to  express  with  his  brush 
the  exquisite  sweetness  and  most  holy  purity  haunting 
the  unfathomable  depths  of  his  mother's  eyes,  the 

1  "  Against  a  black  sky,  riven  by  lightning,  rises  a  great  cross 
on  which  is  nailed  a  human  being  of  a  rough  and  evil  counten- 
ance. It  is  the  impenitent  thief.  He  hangs  there  in  agony, 
his  hair  blown  back  by  the  wild  wind,  but  not  alone.  A  woman 
of  the  people  has  her  arms  round  his  neck,  her  lips  pressed 
against  his  lips.  In  order  to  reach  his  mouth  she  has  had  to 
stand  on  the  back  of  a  little  white  ass,  led  by  a  boy  who  leans 
against  the  tree  of  shame  with  hanging  head.  Is  this  the  love 
of  Montmartre,  etc.  ?  .  .  .  I  do  not  know,  but  in  the  kiss,  in  the 
strained  body  of  the  woman,  uplifted  to  the  crucified,  there  is  a 
strength  of  maternal  love  which  makes  one  believe  in  the 
forgiveness  of  sins." — Sur  la  Branche,  by  Pierre  de  Coulevain. 

344 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

blessed  and  saving  thought  of  that  one  good  action 
would  shine  in  the  darkness  of  his  soul  like  a  star, 
merciful  with  hope. 

On  this  particular  morning  in  high  summer,  painting 
at  the  wide  open  window  with  the  quiet  murmur  of 
the  sea  and  the  innumerable  hum  of  the  green  earth 
in  his  ears,  he  thought  of  the  beautiful  unknown  girl 
and  presently  spoke  about  her. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "  where  she  is  now,  and  whether 
she  has  forgotten  that  evil  dream.  How  strangely 
fate  acts  with  us !  My  life  touched  hers  for  a  moment, 
one  great  and  awful  moment,  and  then — our  names, 
our  identities,  our  destinies  unknown  to  each  other — 
we  parted  for  ever.  Mother,  that  little  act  of  mine 
comforts  me.  But  for  that  I  do  not  know  that  I 

should  be  able  to  support  the  memory  of But 

we  will  not  talk  about  it.  God  be  thanked,  it  lies  every 
day,  every  hour,  farther  behind  me." 

He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  canvas  to  study  her 
posture. 

"This  Madonna,"  he  said,  with  some  excitement, 
"shall  be  our  greatest.  It  shall  express  the  divine 
sorrow  and  the  unchanging  love  of  your  motherhood. 
No  words  so  beautiful  to  me  as  those  lines  in  the 

Sonnets — 

" '  Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds  .  .  . 
O  no  !    it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 
Which  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken.  .  .  .' 

I  have  got  an  idea !  I  will  paint  this  Madonna  stand- 
ing at  the  edge  of  a  wild  sea  under  a  roaring  sky.  It 
has  never  been  done.  There  shall  be  a  ship  half-buried 

345 


The  Shadow 

under  the  waves,  and  she  shall  be  looking  towards  it, 
sorrowful  but  secure.  She  shall  be  the  expression  of 
maternal  love,  which  is  the  nearest  our  humanity  can 
reach  to  heaven.  She  shall  be  you,  and  the  ship  shall 
be  my  soul.  ...  It  shall  be  the  love  which  is 
triumphant  over  disaster  and  time — 

"'Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom  ! ' 

And,  mother  dearest,  remember  that  I  can  only 
succeed  if  you  do  triumph  over  the  sorrow  I  have 
brought  to  you.  It  is  necessary  that  you  become 
every  day  stronger  and  happier.  Will  you  try?  To 
help  me." 

He  looked  up. 

"  I  am  happy,"  she  answered.  Her  eyes  were  closed, 
a  smile  of  unearthly  tenderness  lay  along  the  line  of 
her  lips. 

"  Are  you  tired  ? "  he  asked. 

"  It  rests  me  to  sit  here,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  for  a 
moment  contemplating  him  with  a  tired  but  loving 
interest.  She  very  often  dropped  off  to  sleep  in  the 
daytime,  and  he  was  not  disturbed. 

He  continued  to  work  in  silence. 

Presently  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  though  speak- 
ing to  herself,  "  I  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins." 

These  words  scarcely  reached  him  ;  he  thought  she 
was  speaking  in  her  sleep,  and  did  not  even  glance  in 
her  direction. 

He  became  so  absorbed  in  altering  the  design  of 
his  picture  that  he  looked  seldom,  and  then  only 
swiftly  and  cursorily,  towards  his  mother  for  more  than 

346 


The  Fall  of  the  Dark 

an  hour ;  he  observed  nothing  of  the  change  which  was 
taking  place  in  her. 

At  last  he  was  startled  by  a  profound  sigh.  Quickly 
he  looked  up,  with  the  chalk  arrested  in  his  hand. 

She  was  deadly  white.  Her  eyes  were  still  un 
opened.  Her  lips  were  parted. 

"  Mother ! " 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  hurriedly  crossed  the 
room. 

"  Mother ! " 

He  knelt  at  her  side. 

She  did  not  open  her  eyes.  Her  head  swayed  a 
little,  as  if  she  were  falling  asleep.  The  tiredness  of 
her  attitude  was  the  weariness  of  life,  her  slumber  was 
the  sleep  of  death.  As  he  stood  before  her,  trans- 
fixed with  horror,  her  lips  moved,  and  she  whispered, 
"  My  child  ! "  Then  her  head  sank. 

He  seized  her  hands,  drew  them  fiercely  towards 
him,  gathered  her  into  his  arms,  and  cried  in  a  loud 
voice,  "Mother!  Mother!" 

She  dropped  like  a  dead  flower  into  the  terrified 
passion  of  his  embrace.  The  pressure  of  his  arms  had 
no  meaning  for  her.  The  burning  force  of  his  kisses 
gave  her  no  joy.  For  the  first  time  she  did  not 
respond  to  the  cry  of  his  anguish. 

Dazed,  stunned,  still  unbelieving  the  thing  that  had 
happened,  Christopher  stood  looking  down  upon  his 
mother  lying  so  peacefully  on  the  couch  where  he  had 
placed  her. 


347 


CHAPTER   XXII. 
DISCEDITE  MALEDICTI 

'"HOWARDS  the  close  of  a  summer  day,  early  in 
A  the  present  century,  a  traveller  with  a  knapsack 
on  his  back  was  climbing  the  side  of  Toom  Fell  with 
an  energy  that  suggested  some  important  enterprise. 
The  sky,  to  which  every  difficult  step  of  his  way 
brought  him  a  little  nearer,  brooded  black  and 
ominous  above  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  This 
darkness  of  the  heavens  deepened  with  a  visible 
rapidity.  It  was  reflected  in  the  rushing  waters  of  the 
stream,  whose  course  the  traveller  was  following  in  his 
ascent,  and  showed  in  the  colour  of  boulders  projecting 
from  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  in  the  patches  of 
grass  which,  scattered  among  the  shale,  looked  like 
foam  of  the  fields  flung  upward  from  the  valley  in  a 
night  of  storm.  The  tinge  of  thunder,  deepening  with 
every  moment  in  the  heavens,  sank  into  the  earth  like 
a  dye.  The  whole  scene  was  saturated  with  this  livid 
hue  of  the  storm.  In  spite,  however,  of  the  threaten- 
ing sky  and  the  swift  oncoming  of  night,  the  solitary 
traveller  continued  his  way. 

Save  for  himself,  nowhere  in  that  wild  region  of 
savage  solitude  and  melancholy  grandeur  was  there 
sign  of  living  thing.  He  had  the  world  to  himself. 
He  shared  the  wrath  of  heaven  only  with  the  moun- 

348 


Discedite   Maledicti 

tains.  While  the  rushing  water  seemed  to  be  plunging 
downward  terror-stricken  from  the  storm,  the  man 
seemed  to  be  ascending  swiftly  only  that  he  might 
meet  it.  Solitary  in  the  midst  of  that  gathering 
darkness,  and  forlorn  in  the  midst  of  that  abiding 
desolation,  the  man,  climbing  upward  to  the  tempest 
with  a  burden  on  his  back,  suggested  an  allegory. 

As  if  to  fulfil  the  idea  that  the  black  heaven  had 
lain  in  wait  to  receive  him,  the  darkness  was  split  and 
jagged  open  by  a  stroke  of  lightning  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  reached  the  summit  For  a  flashing 
second  the  magnificent  scene  was  lit  up.  The 
traveller  beheld  the  infinite  distance  of  the  mountain 
peaks.  He  saw  skies  of  turquoise  blue.  The  grass 
on  his  way  became  for  the  instant  green  and  pleasant. 
A  granite  beacon  some  hundred  paces  ahead  of  him, 
and  almost  lost  in  the  darkness,  leapt  up  vivid  and 
distinct.  This  extraordinary  clearness  of  detail  lasted 
but  the  flash  of  a  moment,  while  the  traveller  stood 
drawing  his  breath  on  the  summit. 

Then,  as  the  wonderful  panorama  sank  into  the 
brown-blackness  of  the  storm,  the  upper  air  burst 
into  life,  a  peal  of  thunder  broke  with  a  terrifying  and 
ear-splitting  clangour  just  above  his  head,  which  was 
lifted  to  the  dark  skies. 

An  observer  would  have  seen  some  spiritual  quality 
in  this  lonely  traveller  on  the  mountain-tops  strangely 
and  tragically  at  unity  with  the  thunderstorm.  The 
pallor  of  his  face,  the  darkness  of  his  eyes,  the 
expression  of  enduring  woe  which  lived  along  the  line 
of  his  lips  responded  to  the  suffering  of  Nature  with 
the  suffering  of  humanity.  The  expression  of  his  pale 

349 


The  Shadow 

face  and  the  attitude  of  his  body  denoted  an  age-long 
misery  such  as  one  might  think  to  see  in  the  visage  oi 
the  Wandering  Jew  or  the  Ancient  Mariner.  Just  as 
there  was  no  violence  of  malevolent  antagonism  in  the 
storm,  but  rather  a  dull,  passionless,  and  indifferent 
obedience  to  the  ruling  of  some  inscrutable  Spirit 
behind  it,  so  in  the  countenance  and  attitude  of  the 
man  there  was  nothing  of  Promethean  defiance,  but 
only  a  cold,  passive,  and  dumb  submission  to  the 
burden  of  suffering  which  is  the  doom  of  humanity. 
One  felt  that  if  he  opened  his  lips  he  would  say,  "  I 
pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land." 

He  drew  his  knapsack  higher  on  to  his  shoulders, 
and  set  out  to  cross  the  path  over  the  mountain.  The 
roar  of  the  burn  had  ceased.  A  profound  hush 
brooded  in  the  darkness.  The  traveller  seemed  to  feel 
the  weight  of  this  weird  silence.  He  was  within  a 
pace  or  two  of  the  beacon  when  a  second  flash  oi 
lightning  dazzled  the  darkness  for  a  second,  and  then 
plunged  the  whole  scene  back  into  a  deeper  gloom. 
At  the  moment  of  this  flash  the  traveller's  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  beacon.  Certain  letters  carved  deep 
into  the  stone  sprang  into  clearness.  He  saw,  as 
though  a  spirit  had  flung  the  words  into  his  face,  a 
command — DISCEDITE  MALEDICTI — and  as  he  realised 
their  meaning,  a  blast  of  thunder  that  seemed  to 
crack  the  sky  burst  with  appalling  suddenness  above 
his  head. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  while  the  darkness  thick- 
ened and  the  rumble  of  the  bounding  thunder  rever- 
berated round  the  hills,  gazing  at  the  words  on  the 
beacon.  His  face  became  grey  and  haggard,  there 

350 


Discedite  Maledicti 

was  an  agony  of  woe  in  his  eyes  dreadful  to  behold, 
his  lips  seemed  to  swell  with  the  anguish  of  an 
unutterable  misery  ;  but,  in  spite  of  these  signs  of 
suffering,  the  carriage  of  his  head  and  the  posture  of 
his  body  denied  the  supposition  of  a  broken  spirit. 
There  was  nothing  of  haughtiness  in  his  attitude, 
nothing  of  defiance  and  resentment.  But  there  was 
no  humility,  no  contrition.  One  saw  their  acquies- 
cence in  judgment,  and  endurance  under  punishment. 

The  darkness  increased  as  he  stood  stricken  and 
unbowed  before  the  beacon. 

Those  terrible  words,  "  Depart,  ye  Cursed,"  seemed 
to  hold  him  in  enchantment.  It  might  have  been 
that  he  had  climbed  the  mountain  only  to  read  them. 
He  remained  fixed  and  immovable  before  that  fixed 
and  immovable  doom — humanity  face  to  face  with  the 
tables  of  stone,  humanity  deciphering  the  Law  without 
the  interpretation  of  the  Cross,  humanity  under  sen- 
tence of  Jehovah,  unfathered  by  the  Love  of  God. 

The  letters  seemed  to  sink  into  the  stone  and 
disappear.  A  spot  of  rain  like  a  tear  from  heaven 
fell  upon  them.  The  darkness  became  like  the  dark- 
ness of  the  grave. 

Then  in  a  moment  the  rain  descended  with  a  swift 
rush  that  became  almost  in  an  instant  a  roar.  The 
pageant  of  the  hills,  terrible  in  the  lividity  of  the 
storm,  was  blotted  out.  The  rain  seemed  as  if  it 
brought  down  with  the  waters  of  heaven  the  dye  of  the 
tempest  It  was  a  black  rain,  whose  very  roar  was 
darkness.  Distance  vanished.  The  circle  of  vision 
narrowed.  The  universe  contracted  to  the  man  and 
the  beacon.  Even  the  words  of  judgment  had 

351 


The  Shadow 

disappeared,  as  if  the  darkness  had  fulfilled  the  doom, 
and  the  curse  had  fallen. 

The  traveller  looked  up  to  the  black  sky,  his  face 
drenched  with  rain,  and  after  a  moment  continued  his 
way.  Though  he  appeared  to  study  the  darkness  only 
for  the  weather,  there  was  such  pain  in  his  face,  such 
woe  and  settled  desolation,  that  a  man  seeing  him  look 
upward  to  the  tempest  might  have  said, 

"  This  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ; 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  Himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be." 

He  had  crossed  Toom  Fell  and  descended  some 
distance  to  reach  the  side  of  Raven  Scar,  over  whose 
desolate  summit  lay  the  course  of  his  journey,  when 
he  began  to  be  uncertain  of  his  way.  The  path  he 
had  followed  lost  itself  in  a  wide-spreading  desert 
of  shale.  He  stood  looking  before  him,  gazing  to 
left  and  right,  the  rain  soaking  through  his  shoulders. 
Then,  as  well  as  the  fierceness  of  the  rain  would  let 
him,  he  looked  upward  to  Raven  Scar.  A  streak  of 
lightning  at  that  moment  illumined  the  scene.  On 
the  summit  of  the  great  Scar  he  saw  a  man  standing 
with  his  face  lifted  to  the  storm. 

He  crossed  the  waste  of  shale,  climbed  the  side  of 
Raven  Scar,  and  reached  the  summit.  For  a  moment 
he  thought  that  he  had  aimed  wrongly.  Nowhere 
was  the  man  to  be  seen.  But  presently  he  discerned 
in  the  darkness  a  figure  hastening  away  from  him 
across  the  mountain  top.  The  movements  of  this  man 
perplexed  him.  He  was  hurrying  forward  with  his 

352 


Discedite  Maledicti 

head  raised,  his  arms  outspread.  There  was  something 
terrible  in  his  haste,  in  his  attitude.  The  traveller 
stopped  for  a  moment  and  regarded  him.  Then,  as  if 
aware  that  night  was  now  descending  on  the  mountains, 
and  his  journey  was  uncompleted,  he  continued  his 
way,  walking  rapidly  through  the  rain  to  overtake  the 
man  in  front  of  him. 

A  flash  of  lightning,  more  vivid,  more  terrifying, 
and  of  greater  duration  than  any  which  had  preceded 
it,  suddenly  leapt  out  of  the  blackness  and  flared  in 
jagged  lines  across  the  sky.  The  hurrying  figure  in 
front  of  the  traveller  stopped  dead,  and  lifting  his 
arms  to  heaven,  appeared  slowly  to  clasp  his  hands 
together.  Then  he  turned,  and  the*  traveller  saw 
him.  In  the  great  darkness  of  the  mountains  he  was 
like  a  phantom. 

He  was  an  old,  still  vigorous,  patriarchal  man, 
wrapped  in  a  rough  coat  of  sheepskin  the  very  hue 
of  his  beard,  which  descended  upon  it  almost  to  the 
waist.  His  head  was  covered  by  a  woollen  cap 
pressed  down  as  far  as  the  shaggy  brows,  which  hung 
like  eaves  over  wild  eyes,  small,  blue,  staring.  His 
ears  were  hidden  under  grey  hair.  There  was  some- 
thing mad  and  majestic  about  this  rude  figure  of 
the  mountains,  something  which  recalled  Lear  to  the 
mind  of  the  wondering  traveller,  Lear  in  the  thunder- 
storm on  the  heath, 

"  A  poor,  infirm,  weak  and  despised  old  man," 

a  man  bereft  of  his  reason,  but  more  tremendous  in 
his  madness  than  a  hero  in  his  sanity. 

When  this  old  man  beheld  the  traveller,  he  came 

353  2  A 


towards  him,  using  the  long  staff,  which  had  been 
gripped  under  his  arm,  as  a  stick,  his  right  hand 
grasping  it  high  up  and  plunging  it  forward  at  every 
stride  with  a  quick  instancy.  He  became  grand.  He 
was  Homeric.  "  God  !  "  he  cried  out  in  a  great  deep 
voice,  as  he  reached  the  traveller — "  Almighty  God  !  " 
They  were  standing  face  to  face  in  the  darkness.  He 
lifted  his  arms,  raised  his  eyes,  and  cried  out  again, 
"  Almighty  and  Everlasting  God  ! " 

The  traveller  watched  him. 

Suddenly  the  old  man,  who  was  labouring  under 
intense  excitement,  lowered  his  arms,  and  bringing 
his  staring  eyes  near  to  the  traveller's  face,  exclaimed 
wildly,  "  Fear  the  Lord !  He  speaks.  He  is  terrible. 
Fear  the  Lord ! " 

The  rugged  splendour  in  this  old  man  of  the 
mountains,  which  concorded  with  the  sombre  darkness 
of  earth  and  sky,  made  the  traveller  study  him  with 
an  interest  greater  than  curiosity. 

"  The  terrors  of  God,"  cried  the  old  rnari,  looking  to 
the  sky,  and  baying  out  the  words  in  his  great,  gruff, 
vigorous  bass,  "  do  set  themselves  in  array  against  me. 
Hear  attentively  the  noise  of  His  voice,  and  the  sound 
that  goeth  out  of  His  mouth.  God  thundereth  mar- 
vellously with  His  voice ;  great  things  doeth  He, 
which  we  cannot  comprehend.  Hast  thou  an  arm 
like  God  ?  or  canst  thou  thunder  with  a  voice  like 
Him  ?  Canst  thou  bring  forth  Mazzaroth  in  his 
season  ?  or  canst  thou  guide  Arcturus  with  his  sons  ? 
Have  the  gates  of  death  been  opened  unto  thee  ?  or 
hast  thou  seen  the  doors  of  the  shadow  of  death  ? " 
He  paused,  glancing  wildly  at  the  traveller's  face ; 

354 


Discedite  Maledicti 

then,  placing  a  hand  upon  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
he  said,  "  When  God  speaks,  answer  Him  as  mighty 
Job  answered.  Say — '  I  abhor  myself,  and  repent  in 
dust  and  ashes.'  Ah  !  bow.  Bow  yourself.  We  are 
but  as  dust  before  Him." 

For  a  moment  this  old  man  gazed  with  staring 
eyes  into  the  traveller's  face ;  then,  as  a  flash  of 
lightning  flamed,  jerked,  and  flickered  over  their 
heads,  he  suddenly  snatched  away  his  hand,  raised 
his  face,  which  had  become  dull  with  awe,  to  the 
black  sky,  and  "  Listen  !  "  he  commanded,  and  raised 
his  right  arm  with  authority. 

The  two  men  stood  in  the  darkness,  the  silence,  and 
the  rain,  listening. 

A  volley  of  thunder,  which  seemed  to  burst  the 
heavens  and  shake  the  earth  to  her  foundations, 
crashed  with  a  shattering  din  above  their  heads, 
and  bounded  and  rolled  away  into  invisible  distance, 
swelling  into  angered  thuds  as  it  died  muttering  on 
the  black  air. 

With  his  weather-beaten  face  raised  to  the  sky,  his 
hard  blue  eyes  shining  luminously,  the  old  man  cried 
in  a  low  voice,  "  Behold,  I  am  vile.  What  shall  I 
answer  Thee  ?  I  will  lay  mine  hand  upon  my 
mouth."  He  almost  whispered  into  the  flying  clouds, 
"  Desolation  !  Desolation  ! "  He  continued  for  some 
moments  gazing  up  into  the  sky,  as  though  in 
prayer. 

As  he  stood  in  this  manner,  the  traveller,  who  was 
studying  his  face  attentively,  saw  the  skin  become 
suddenly  clearer  and  brighter,  as  though  a  candle 
shone  upon  it.  Every  wrinkle  became  visible.  He 

355  2  A  2 


The  Shadow 

looked  up  at  the  sky.  The  storm  had  passed.  The 
darkness  was  melting. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  violence  of  excitement,  which 
had  animated  and  ennobled  the  old  man,  fell  away 
from  him  with  the  passing  of  the  storm.  He  shrank, 
with  a  strange  suddenness,  into  commonplace.  A 
moment  ago,  standing  like  a  sentinel  in  the  midst 
of  the  tempest,  leaning  on  his  long  staff  and  looking 
up  into  the  blackness  of  the  heavens,  he  might  have 
been  Elijah,  Lear,  or  some  old  Druid  priest  reigning 
by  the  eloquence  of  his  soul  over  a  wild  and  lawless 
people.  But  now,  with  the  lightening  of  the  sky,  the 
passing  of  the  tempest,  he  appeared  to  the  traveller 
only  a  bowed  and  broken  old  man,  some  ancient 
shepherd  earning  dry  crusts  on  the  mountains,  and 
fearing  not  the  majesty  of  God,  but  the  sordid  squalor 
of  poverty. 

Wondering  that  he  had  been  so  marvellously  im- 
pressed by  him,  and  taking  him  now  for  some 
demented  peasant  whose  mind  had  been  affected 
by  religious  emotionalism,  the  traveller  approached 
him,  and  saying  that  the  storm  had  passed,  inquired 
the  way  to  Penraven. 

The  shepherd  said  that  he  would  show  him,  and 
they  walked  forward  together,  neither  speaking. 

Near  the  extremity  of  the  Scar,  commanding  an 
extraordinary  view  of  the  hills,  stood  a  wooden  hut 
with  a  single  window.  The  shepherd  went  to  it  and 
opened  the  door,  on  which  was  written  in  rude  letters 
"  Fear  the  Lord."  The  traveller  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  miserable  interior — an  unmade  bed,  a  table  littered 
with  plates  and  dishes,  a  fireless  stove,  a  chair  covered 

356 


Discedite  Maledicti 

with  old  clothing  ;  on  the  wall,  over  the  head  of  the 
bed,  was  a  red-bordered  church  almanac  with  a  picture 
of  the  Good  Shepherd. 

The  old  man  pulled  off  his  coat  of  sheep-skin,  hung 
it  behind  the  door,  and  grasping  his  staff  came  out 
again  to  the  traveller. 

"  This  is  where  you  live  ?  " 

"  Most  of  the  year." 

« Alone  ? " 

"  Alone." 

"  Do  you  mind  that  ? " 

"  It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord." 

"  That  you  live  alone  ? " 

"  That  my  house  should  be  left  unto  me,  desolate." 

"  Are  you  from  Penraven  ? '' 

"  Aye." 

"  You  know  the  clergyman  ?" 

"  And  his  father  before  him." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  him,  after  nearly  twenty  years. 
He  was  my  tutor." 

"  He  is  changed." 

"In  what  way ? " 

"  How  do  the  old  suffer  ? " 

"  You  mean  he  is  ill  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  The  old  suffer  through  the  children." 

The  traveller's  face  blanched,  and  he  seemed  to 
wish  to  hurry  his  pace. 

"  You  are  young,"  said  the  shepherd,  "  but  yet 
you  should  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  the 
stroke  of  the  old  comes  from  the  hand  of  the  young. 

357 


The  Shadow 

Aye,  the  child  strikes  hard.  When  an  old  man  is 
not  at  peace,  it  is  the  work  of  those  he  nourished 
and  loved." 

The  young  man's  eyes  darkened. 

"  Parson  Kindred  and  I  contend  together,"  said  the 
old  man  slowly  and  quietly.  "  He  is  for  the  love  of 
God  ;  I  am  for  the  fear  of  God.  He  is  of  the  valley, 
where  there  are  flowers ;  I  am  of  the  mountains, 
where  there  are  storms.  But  both  of  us  know  the 
dust  and  ashes.  Fear  the  Lord  !  "  he  cried,  raising 
his  voice.  "  Fear  the  Lord  !  "  He  stopped,  and  the 
traveller  turned,  wondering  at  this  sudden  return  of 
his  madness.  The  old  man's  eyes  were  moist  with 
tears.  "  Aye,  fear  the  Lord,"  he  said  quietly,  bowing 
his  head  in  emphasis  of  the  words.  "  I  was  once  like 
Parson  Kindred.  Love  ! "  His  eyes  shone,  and  he 
lifted  his  face.  "  Love !  I  was  drunk  with  the 
thought  of  the  love  of  God."  Hie  head  came 
down,  shaking  sorrowfully,  and  he  muttered,  as 
though  to  himself,  "The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away.  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 
Let  the  whole  earth  fear  Him,"  he  cried  with  sudden 
energy.  "The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  beginning  of 
wisdom.  Fear  the  Lord  !  "  He  paused,  drew  a  deep 
sigh,  and  continued  in  a  quieter  tone,  "  Man  is  born 
unto  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upward.  God  dis- 
tributeth  sorrows  in  His  anger.  Even  to-day  is  my 
complaint  bitter ;  my  stroke  is  heavier  than  my 
groaning.  Aye,  and  that  good  man  in  the  valley 
beneath.  His  stroke  is  heavy.  God  hath  struck  him 
as  He  hath  stricken  me  also.  Desolation  !  Desola- 
tion !  Leave  him  alone  to  himself.  Aye,  leave  him 

358 


Discedite  Maledicti 

alone.  I  have  suffered  like  him.  A  man  must  be  by 
himself  when  God  hath  made  him  desolate.  Leave 
him ;  he  is  alone  and  deserted  ;  let  the  Lord  dwell 
with  him.  And  you — you  are  young  enough  to 
have  father  and  mother — hearken  to  me.  Love 
your  father,  love  your  mother ;  and  pray  to  God 
night  and  day  that  never  you  come  to  break  their 
hearts  and  bring  their  grey  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave  ! " 

The  traveller  made  a  movement  as  if  to  continue 
his  way.  The  shepherd  caught  his  arm. 

"Abide  a  moment.  You  have  seen  me  with  the 
wrath  of  the  heavens.  Young  sir,  when  you  go  down 
to  the  valley  do  not  forget  the  thunder  of  God's  voice. 
Remember  it  for  your  own  salvation.  Speak  about 
it  to  others  for  their  salvation.  Tell  men  to  fear  the 
Lord.  Tell  young  children,  lest  they  come  to  break 
their  parents'  hearts,  to  fear  the  Lord.  Preach  ;  be  a 
preacher  of  the  fear  of  God.  I  tell  you  this — life 
passes.  Death  is  swift.  My  eighty  years  lie  behind 
me  like  a  vision  of  the  night.  Soon  cometh  judgment. 
Fear  the  Lord,  I  say,  fear  the  Lord." 

He  released  his  hold/>f  the  young  man's  arm,  whose 
eyes  had  hardened  as  he  spoke,  and  went  forward 
again.  "Yon  is  your  way,"  he  said  presently,  point- 
ing downward  with  his  right  hand.  "  You  strike  the 
burn  by  that  bush  where  the  hill  dips.  Follow  the 
burn  into  the  valley  till  you  come  to  the  bridge. 
Then  up  the  road  for  half  a  mile,  and  you  come  to  the 
church.  Parson  Kindred  lives  a  hundred  yards  from 
it  on  the  right."  He  paused,  laying  a  hand  on  the 
traveller's  arm,  and  said,  "  God  hath  stricken  His 

359 


The  Shadow 

humble  minister.  Leave  him  alone.  His  house  is 
desolate." 

The  traveller  stood  looking  down  into  the  valley. 
His  face  was  very  white  and  drawn.  "  Is  there  an 
inn  ? "  he  inquired  in  a  hard  voice,  and  turned  to  the 
shepherd. 

The  old  man  considered,  and  replied,  "  At  the  little 
farmhouse,  that  lies  back  from  the  road  just  before 
you  reach  the  church,  they  would  give  you  a  room. 
Say  I  sent  you." 

"  What  is  your  name  ? " 

"  The  Mad  Shepherd." 

"  Come,  a  truer  name  ?  " 

"i»The  chief  of  sinners." 

The  young  man  eased  the  wet  straps  of  his  knap- 
sack, and  preparing  to  descend,  said,  "  May  I  come  and 
see  you  again  ? " 

"  I  have  said  all  I  know.     Fear  the  Lord." 

"  I  am  an  artist.  I  should  like  to  make  a  picture 
of  you." 

"  I  think  nothing  of  that" 

"  I  may  come  ? " 

"To  look  at  me?  Better  that  you  give  heed  to 
my  words." 

"  Good-night  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  show- 
ing me  the  way." 

The  old  man  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "  If  you  see 
Parson,  say  the  Mad  Shepherd  prays  for  him  on  the 
mountain.  Tell  him  that  Good-night,  the  Lord  be 
with  you." 

When  the  traveller  reached  the  valley,  the  gloom 
of  the  dense  leafage  was  pierced  and  penetrated  by 

360 


Discedite  Maledicti 

moonlight.  A  sense  of  sweetness  breathed  in  the 
still  air  which  was  almost  overpowering  after  the 
mountain  top.  White  mists  were  ascending  from  the 
pastures  like  spirits  rising  from  the  grave  ;  the  moon- 
light gave  them  a  celestial  brightness.  The  music  of 
the  burn  filled  the  night  with  lovely  harmonies.  One 
felt  that  the  storm  had  been  local  to  the  hills  and 
that  the  peace  and  beauty  of  this  sylvan  valley  had 
been  unbroken  from  the  dawn  of  creation. 

The  striking  of  the  church  clock  announced  to  the 
traveller  that  the  village  was  near. 

As  he  approached  it  he  said  to  himself,  without 
sorrow  and  without  bitterness,  "  Discedite  maledicti," 
and  felt  upon  his  soul  the  weight  of  "  a  hand  that 
can  be  clasp'd  no  more." 


361 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
THE     OUTLAW 

THE  most  terrible  form  of  remorse  is  not  that  wild 
despair  which  drives  a  man  to  destruction.  To 
destroy  the  body  in  order  to  escape  from  one's  own 
soul  is  an  act  of  madness.  Remorse  only  reaches  the 
fulness  of  its  power  in  the  rational  mind.  It  is  a  cold, 
steady,  and  dispassionate  self-knowledge.  It  is  an 
undying  memory.  It  is  not  a  scourge  ;  it  is  a  voice. 
It  is  not  a  goad ;  it  is  a  burden.  The  weak  often 
know  nothing  of  remorse  ;  they  know  despair.  It  is 
the  strong  who  suffer. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  traveller  climbing 
the  rugged  side  of  Toom  Fell  appeared  to  be  in  haste, 
as  though  he  had  some  urgent  enterprise  on  hand. 
He  was  seeking  to  escape  from  himself. 

That  traveller  was  Christopher  Grafton. 

To  himself  he  seemed  not  only  a  hateful  thing,  but 
an  outlaw  of  God.  He  had  slain  his  mother  by  an 
act  that  outraged  Heaven.  By  the  death  of  his 
mother  he  realised  her  love,  and  realised  the  horror 
of  his  sin.  His  desolation  was  twofold.  He  was 
bereaved  of  love,  he  was  bereaved  of  hope.  Never 
more  — God  help  him! — would  he  know  the  divine 
affection  which  from  childhood  had  breathed  upon  his 

362 


The  Outlaw 

life  from  his  mother's  soul  ;  her  eyes  were  closed,  her 
hands  were  folded,  her  breast  was  cold  as  marble  ;  he 
might  cry,  but  she  would  not  answer  ;  call,  but  she 
would  not  come  to  him  ;  seek,  but  he  would  not  find 
her ;  she  was  dead — the  true  and  tender  companion 
of  his  life  was  dead.  We  understand  death  for  the  first 
time,  says  a  great  writer,  when  he  lays  his  hand  on 
one  whom  we  love.  There  is  a  greater  tragedy. 
Some  natures  understand  love  only  when  death  has 
removed  it.  To  awake  beside  the  grave,  to  know  that 
what  is  lost  was  never  valued,  that  what  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  confession,  and  tears,  and  penitence,  was 
never  understood,  that  what  has  passed  away  from  us 
is  beyond  the  knowledge  that  at  last  we  do  under- 
stand, do  value,  and  do  love — ah,  with  all  our  strength 
and  with  all  our  soul ! — is  this  not  the  real  tragedy  of 
death,  the  real  tragedy  of  life,  terrible  for  the  repent- 
ing believer,  but  most  terrible,  most  unthinkably 
terrible,  for  the  soul  without  a  God  ?  To  understand 
death  for  the  first  time  is  the  sharpness  of  sorrow. 
To  understand  love  for  the  first  time  only  when  it  is 
taken  from  us  is  the  agony  of  remorse. 

The  desolation  wrought  by  the  death  of  his  mother 
was  tragedy  enough,  but  to  this  was  added,  as  we 
have  said,  the  second  desolation  of  eternal  hope.  He 
saw  his  sin,  the  sin  that  had  killed  her,  with  eyes  purged 
of  the  world.  He  saw  the  horror,  the  blasphemy,  the 
unpardonable  infamy  of  that  sin  with  eyes  that  looked 
through  the  shadowy  portals  of  death  to  the  awful 
bourne  of  immortality.  He  awoke  to  feel  himself 
under  the  curse  of  God.  He  felt  that  if  men  knew 
what  he  had  done  they  would  shrink  from  him,  half 

363 


The  Shadow 

in  loathing  and  half  in  horror.  "  Discedite  Maledicti  " 
was  the  just  judgment  of  God  ;  it  would  also  be  the 
judgment  of  humanity,  if  humanity  knew 

"  I  am  defenceless  utterly  ; 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 

And  pulled  my  life  upon  me ;  grimed  with  fears 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap." 

To  analyse  the  mystery  of  remorse  would  be  a  task 
as  forbidding  as  hopeless.  But  this  at  least  must  be 
said,  that  remorse  is  not  always  a  continual  depression 
of  the  energies,  is  not  always  a  perpetual  and  unbroken 
consciousness  of  despair.  No  ;  it  is  a  voice  from  outside 
us  which  is  not  always  speaking,  but  which  makes  itself 
heard  suddenly  and  in  moments  when  we  are  freest 
from  the  sense  of  guilt.  It  is  something  that  haunts 
our  steps  for  a  little  while,  and  like  our  own  shadow,  is 
now  in  front  of  us,  now  behind  us,  and  now  vanished 
altogether.  We  forget  it,  but  it  comes  back  and  says, 
"  I  am  here."  We  seek  to  escape  it,  we  run  far  from 
it  and  delude  ourselves  that  we  have  lost  it,  but  it  stands 
in  front  of  us  and  says  : 

"  I  am  thyself — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ? " 
It  was  in  this  manner  that  remorse  functioned  in 
the  mind  of  Christopher  Grafton.  He  thought  by 
ceaseless  movement  to  escape  the  burden  of  memory. 
He  avoided  all  who  had  known  his  mother.  He  shrank 
from  every  place  consecrated  and  haunted  by  her  "  cold 
commemorative  eyes."  Straight  from  her  grave  he  set 

364 


The  Outlaw 

out  to  wander  over  the  earth.  Distracted,  he  sought 
distraction.  There  were  hours  when  he  felt  the  en- 
chantment of  pastoral  hills  and  watered  valleys,  hours 
when  he  worked  at  his  art  with  an  exquisite  loss  of 
self,  hours  when  a  new  city  obsessed  the  faculties  of  his 
mind.  But 

"  Just  when  we  are  safest,  there's  a  sunset  touch, 
A  fancy  from  a  flower-bell,  someone's  death, 
A  chorus-ending  from  Euripides — 
And  that's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears, 
As  old  and  new  at  once  as  Nature's  self, 
To  rap  and  knock  and  enter  in  our  soul." 

So  it  had  been  with  Christopher  Grafton.  Memory 
might  sleep  and  doze,  but  now  it  stirred  in  its  sleep, 
and  now  woke  up,  and  now  it  murmured,  "  I  am  here," 
and  now  it  wept  bitterly,  "I  am  thyself — what  hast 
thou  done  to  me  ? " 

Surely  this,  too,  is  the  lot  of  purest  and  unhaunted 
grief.  The  heart,  widowed  of  its  love,  is  not  always 
conscious  of  its  awful  lack,  its  aching  solitude,  but  has 
smiles  and  words  of  good  cheer  for  the  world,  and  is 
itself  happy  for  long  hours  with  quiet  peace ;  but  just 
when  we  are  safest,  there's  a  sunset  touch  ;  and  then 
one  knows  the  answer  to  the  cry, 

"  Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast, 
Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be?" 

Is  it  not  only  in  moments  that  we  wake  to  realise 
again  the  full  sense  of  our  loss  ?  Yes,  both  sin  and 
sorrow  are  voices  in  the  memory  which  never  die,  but 
which  are  sometimes  silent. 

365 


The  Shadow 

Some  impulse  which  he  did  not  examine,  nor  even 
desire  to  understand,  had  at  last  driven  this  poor  exile 
of  Heaven,  this  alien  of  hope,  this  self-hating  outlaw 
of  God  who  could  find  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  his  foot 
to  the  man  who  had  left  upon  his  childhood  the 
ineffaceable  impress  of  a  noble  and  affectionate  char- 
acter. He  had  no  thought  to  confess  his  sin,  to  discuss 
religion,  or  to  speak  of  his  mother.  He  came  hither 
by  an  inarticulate  impulse.  He  could  not  have  told 
why  he  came. 

And  now  he  learned  that  this  good  man  for  whom 
he  treasured  a  boy's  pure  and  beautiful  affection,  had 
been  stricken  even  as  he  himself  had  stricken  his  own 
mother.  The  knowledge  stayed  his  purpose.  He 
shrank  from  seeing  the  sufferer.  Again  he  heard  the 
sentence  in  his  soul,  " Discedite  Maledicti"  and  felt 
himself  outlawed  from  communion  with  his  fellow- 
men,  outlawed  from  God. 

On  the  night  of  his  arrival  he  was  told  by  the  good 
wife  of  the  farmhouse  that  the  poor  old  shepherd  of 
the  mountains  had  once  owned  land  in  that  part  of 
the  country  and  had  been  ruined  by  his  sons,  ill  men, 
lawless  and  dissolute.  This  ruin  of  his  love  and  his 
fortune  had  turned  the  brain  of  the  old  man,  and  now 
he  spent  his  years  tending  sheep  on  the  mountains, 
occasionally  coming  down  to  the  village  to  preach  in 
the  village  streets  the  fear  of  God. 

"  No  one,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  woman,  "  ever  goes 
near  the  poor  old  man,  except  it  be  Mr.  Kindred." 

Christopher,  looking  away,  said,  "  And  he,  too,  has 
suffered  from  ungrateful  children." 

"  Well,  we  don't  know,"  said  the  woman  darkly,  and 
366 


The  Outlaw 

with  hesitation  ;  "  we  can't  say  what  has  happened. 
But  both  of  his  daughters  have  left  him.  One  to  get 
married,  though  it  was  a  poor  marriage  enough ;  and 
the  other — well,  nobody  knows  for  certain  why  she 
left.  I  dare  say  it  was  nothing  bad.  I  hope  it  wasn't. 
They  were  both  handsome,  high-spirited  young  ladies. 
This  place,  I  think,  was  far  too  quiet  for  them.  And 
they  hadn't  got  a  mother  to  teach  them.  But,  anyway, 
Mr.  Kindred  lives  alone  now.  He  has  done  for  a  year 
and  more.  He's  there  in  the  house  all  by  himself, 
poor  old  gentleman.  Just  a  woman  from  the  village 
goes  in  of  a  morning  to  tidy  up  and  get  him  his  break- 
fast, and  that's  all.  As  for  company,  he  sees  none. 
Since  Lord  Penraven  died,  and  the  estate  was  sold, 
we  have  had  a  French  family  living  at  the  Hall,  and 
they're  Roman  Catholics,  and  have  a  priest  of  their 
own — something  to  do  with  the  French  royal  family, 
people  say — and  so  Mr.  Kindred  doesn't  see  anything 
of  them.  No,  he's  very  much  left  to  himself,  and  a 
sweeter  soul  or  a  truer  Christian  there  isn't  living  in 
all  England,  I'll  lay  my  word." 

This  Christopher  learned  on  the  night  of  his  arrival 
at  the  farmhouse.  On  the  following  morning,  as  he 
came  out  into  the  garden  before  breakfast,  the  church 
bell  began  to  ring.  He  opened  the  gate  and  walked 
slowly  down  the  road.  He  wished  to  see  this  man 
who  suffered  in  the  solitude  of  the  hills.  He  thought 
to  see  him  come  up  the  road  and  enter  the  church. 
He  would  look  upon  him,  say  nothing,  and  go  upon 
his  way  again. 

No  figure  appeared  on  the  white  road.  The  solitary 
bell  filled  the  green  and  leafy  valley  with  a  note  of 

367 


The  Shadow 

melancholy — not  harsh  nor  grating — "the  still  sad 
music  of  humanity." 

Nobody  appeared  to  be  stirring  in  the  stone  houses, 
or  in  the  orchards  and  gardens  which  bordered  the 
walled  road.  The  village  was  as  silent  as  the  moun- 
tains surrounding  it  on  every  side,  whose  peaks  pierced 
the  deep  blue  of  a  serene  sky.  From  the  stone  bridge 
beyond  the  church,  where  the  road  curved  away  into 
the  gloom  of  woodland,  rose  the  deep  music  of  the 
burn.  Cattle  could  be  seen  feeding  in  the  valley  and 
on  the  side  of  the  hills,  through  the  trees  at  the 
roadside  laden  with  the  scents  of  summer. 

Christopher,  sauntering  through  the  drowsy  scene, 
reached  the  wall  of  the  churchyard.  Still  there  was 
no  sign  of  the  minister.  He  walked  more  slowly, 
looking  over  the  wall  at  the  village  graves,  each  one 
the  witness  of  mortality,  each  one  the  end  of  a  life 
either  good  or  evil ;  he  noticed  how  the  little  acre 
was  full  of  flowers.  He  came  to  the  lych-gate,  and 
stood  looking  in  the  direction  where  the  roof  of  the 
parsonage  could  be  seen  above  the  trees.  Still  no  one 
came. 

He  turned  and  glanced  towards  the  church. 

The  door  stood  open.  A  white-haired  man  in  a 
shabby  cassock,  holding  a  book  in  one  hand  and 
grasping  the  bell-rope  in  the  other,  stood  under  the 
belfry.  At  one  and  the  same  time  he  was  ringing  the 
bell  and  learning  verses  of  the  Psalms.  Christopher 
started.  It  was  John  Kindred  himself. 

The  light  of  morning  entered  the  church  porch. 
The  clergyman  stood  in  a  radiance  of  misty  light. 
The  shabbiness  of  his  cassock  was  manifest  at  the 

368 


The  Outlaw 

distance  of  the  gate.  Not  less  apparent  was  the 
singular  sweetness  of  his  pale  and  withered  counten- 
ance. His  lips  were  moving,  he  was  lost  in  the  words 
he  was  getting  by  heart ;  it  was  quite  clear  that  he 
was  smiling.  Framed  by  the  great  arch  of  the  door- 
way, and  enclosed  in  the  ancient  stone  of  the  tower, 
this  old  man  with  the  bell-rope  and  the  Psalms  of 
David  made  a  picture  that  the  dullest  could  not  have 
seen  without  emotion.  Christopher  felt  his  heart  soften 
and  his  whole  being  lighten,  as  he  stood  and  looked, 
reflected  and  remembered. 

His  boyhood  crowded  and  beat  upon  his  brain. 

He  waited  till  the  ringer  ceased.  He  watched  him 
go  away,  still  reading  from  the  Psalms,  and  he  was 
still  standing  at  the  gate  when  the  flutter  of  something 
white  in  the  dark  interior  of  the  church  told  him  that 
the  minister  had  donned  his  surplice  and  was  moving 
to  the  desk. 

He  passed  through  the  gate,  got  upon  the  grass  at 
the  side  of  the  gravel  path,  and  approached  nearer  to 
the  church.  He  was  out  of  sight,  and  himself  could 
see  nothing.  He  waited  to  hear  the  familiar  voice. 

A  low  murmurous  sound  came  to  his  ears.  He 
moved  nearer,  still  listening.  No  words  were  audible. 
The  tone  of  the  voice  was  indistinct.  He  moved 
forward  again,  treading  softly,  and  reached  the  porch. 
He  stood  with  his  head  down,  his  ear  inclined  towards 
the  open  door.  Some  sparrows  in  the  belfry  filled  the 
hot  and  sunlit  air  with  their  chirping.  Christopher 
tried  to  be  deaf  to  their  noise.  Then  he  heard,  from 
the  dim  interior  of  this  ancient  house  of  prayer,  the 
voice  that  he  knew,  the  low,  quiet,  gentle  voice  which 

369  2  B 


The  Shadow 

had  made  kind  music  in  his  boy's  soul.  What  were 
the  words  ?  He  strained  his  ears.  Then  he  heard  : 
"  Almighty  and  most  merciful  Father,  we  have  erred 
and  strayed  from  Thy  ways  like  lost  sheep.  .  ." 

He  waited  there,  with  his  face  very  white  and  his 
head  bowed,  till  the  voice  in  the  church  broke  over  the 
words,  "  Restore  Thou  them  that  are  penitent :  Ac- 
cording to  Thy  promises  declared  unto  mankind  in 
Christ  Jesu  our  Lord." 

The  rest  of  the  words  were  lost  to  his  ears  in  the 
tinkle  of  a  sheep-bell  sounding  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  graveyard. 

When  he  returned  to  his  lodging  he  could  not  rid 
himself  of  a  reflection  which  caused  him  inexpressible 
pain.  He  remembered  that  when  last  he  had  seen  John 
Kindred  his  soul  was  innocent. 

To  go  and  see  this  sweet  old  man  now  would  be 
but  to  energise  self-hate  and  intensify  the  sense  of  his 
banishment  from  the  society  of  virtuous  men.  He 
would  be  reminded  at  every  word  of  his  innocence,  of 
his  purity,  of  his  frank  and  perfect  joy — all  trampled 
underfoot.  He  must  needs  make  himself  a  lie,  or  this 
saint  would  pale  before  him,  shrink  from  him,  even  if 
he  did  not  utter  the  sentence  of  banishment,  "  Discedite 
Maledicti." 

And  yet  to  go  away  into  the  old  emptiness  of  the 
world  was  hard  and  bitter.  To  rest  for  a  little  while, 
in  his  ceaseless  pilgrimage  of  pain,  was  kind  and  com- 
fortable. This  green  valley,  safe  in  the  midst  of  the 
eternal  hills,  appealed  to  his  weary  heart.  This  little 
sleeping  hamlet,  reposing  with  such  childlike  confidence 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  breathed  into  his  aching 

370 


The  Outlaw 

soul  a  lulling  charm  of  peace.  For  the  first  time  since 
he  felt  himself  an  outlaw,  and  set  out  to  flee  from 
men  and  the  habitations  of  men,  he  was  conscious  of 
some  dim  whispering  sense  of  peace.  No,  he  must 
stay  a  little  longer,  for  a  little  longer  he  must  cheat 
himself  with  the  delusion  of  rest. 

He  went  out  later  in  the  day,  after  he  had  made 
arrangements  for  his  baggage  to  be  fetched  from  the 
station,  and  avoiding  both  church  and  parsonage,  struck 
down  [the  valley  into  the  unknown  country  beyond 
the  path  to  Raven's  Scar. 

It  was  late  before  he  turned  to  retrace  his  steps, 
and  he  sought  to  lessen  the  distance  before  him  by 
leaving  the  winding  road  and  making  a  straight  line 
through  the  fields. 

He  found  himself  presently  crossing  a  park. 

At  a  curve  in  some  woodland,  he  came  face  to  face 
with  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  saw  that  he  was  near 
the  gardens  ot  the  park.  The  woman,  who  was  dressed 
in  the  full  extravagance  of  the  fashion,  put  up  a  lorgnette 
and  looked  at  him.  The  man,  who  was  middle-aged, 
tall,  shapely,  dignified,  and  over-elaborately  dressed  in 
that  kind  of  clothes  which  sporting  tailors  consider  do 
no  violence  to  pastoral  Nature,  glanced  angrily  at  the 
intruder  and  then  surveyed  him  with  a  haughty  stare. 

Christopher's  way  lay  in  front  of  these  people.  He 
turned  aside  and  passed  behind  them.  When  he  had 
gone  a  few  paces,  the  man  called  him.  He  turned  and 
found  this  angry  personage  striding  after  him. 

"  You  are  trespassing,  let  me  tell  you." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

"  Go  out  at  once.     You  have  no  right  here." 
371  2  B  2 


The  Shadow 

Christopher  replied  in  French,  for  he  realised  by 
the  man's  accent  that  this  was  the  French  owner  of 
the  Hall  about  whom  the  farm-wife  had  spoken  to  him. 
"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  he  said  with  a  darkening  brow, 
"  but  you  must  not  address  me  like  a  dog." 

The  Frenchman  said  in  English,  "  You  are  trespas- 
sing. Go  out.  I  order  you  to  go  out." 

In  French  Christopher  retorted,  "  I  order  you  to 
speak  to  me  as  a  man." 

The  other,  whose  face  was  fierce  with  annoyance 
and  irritation,  standing  quite  close  to  Christopher,  said, 
"  Will  you  go,  when  I  tell  you  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Christopher. 

The  Frenchman  glanced  back  at  his  companion. 
She  was  standing  at  a  little  distance,  regarding  the 
two  men  through  her  lorgnette.  Then  he  turned  to 
Christopher.  "  I  am  the  Comte  de  Lyons,  the  owner 
of  this  place  ;  I  order  you  to  go." 

"  If  you  were  the  King  of  France,"  replied  Chris- 
topher, "  I  would  not  obey  you." 

This  sentence  stung  the  other  to  fury.  It  looked  for 
a  moment  as  if  he  intended  to  strike. 

Christopher  said,  "  Stand  back.  You  come  too  near 
me.  I  am  an  Englishman  ;  I  hit  quickly." 

The  other  obeyed  this  fierce  command.  He  drew 
back  a  pace.  "  I  will  have  you  punished,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  insolent."  He  got  command  of  himself,  and 
said,  "  I  have  warned  you  that  you  are  breaking  the 
law  by  being  on  this  property.  You  refuse  to  leave  it. 
Very  well ;  the  law  shall  deal  with  you." 

Christopher  was  about  to  answer,  but  the  Frenchman 
strode  off.  For  a  moment  Christopher  regarded  him. 

372 


The  Outlaw 

His  blood  was  on  fire.  The  feeling  of  injustice  which 
stings  lonely  men  to  desperate  action  was  strong  in 
him.  He  had  to  lay  a  rein  upon  himself. 

Instead,  however,  of  a  brawl,  Christopher  found 
expression  for  his  indignation  in  a  continuance  of  his 
way.  He  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked  forward 
across  the  park. 

At  the  paling,  which  he  reached  through  a  shrubbery, 
he  came  upon  a  gamekeeper,  who  was  almost  breathless 
through  running. 

"You  must  not  pass  here,"  said  the  man.  "You 
must  go  back.  This  is  private  property." 

"  I  shall  not  go  back." 

"  You  cannot  pass." 

"  Will  you  prevent  me  ?  " 

"  You  cannot  pass  this  way  ;  it  is  private  property  ; 
you  must  go  back." 

"  Listen,"  said  Christopher.  "  I  injure  neither  man 
nor  property  in  my  trespass.  I  intend  to  pass  on.  If 
you  attempt  to  stop  me,  it  will  be  at  your  own  risk. 
I  do  not  brook  a  hand  upon  me.  I  have  warned  you." 

"  Then  I  must  have  your  name  and  address." 

"  That  you  must  discover  for  yourself." 

"  You  refuse  to  give  your  name  ? " 

"  Stand  out  of  my  way." 

"You  will  be  summoned.  We  stand  no  nonsense 
here." 

Christopher  advanced,  the  man  stepped  aside. 

"  I  shall  follow  you,"  he  said  "  I'll  have  your  name 
and  address,  whether  or  no." 

Christopher  walked  forward.  He  heard  the  game- 
keeper following  him.  He  was  hot  with  passion, 

373 


The  Shadow 

feeling  that  every  man's  hand  was  against  him.  He 
turned  suddenly,  trembling.  So  hard  and  threatening 
was  his  face  that  the  keeper  stopped. 

"  It  is  my  duty  to  have  your  name  and  address," 
said  the  servant  of  the  French  master. 

A  feeling  of  profound  contempt  overcame  the  burning 
indignation  in  Christopher's  mind.  He  hated  himself 
for  lack  of  command,  for  his  exhibition  of  passion  made 
before  this  mean  person. 

He  told  the  man  his  name  and  the  place  where  he 
lodged.  "  If  you  will  tell  me  the  amount  of  the 
damage  I  have  done  by  my  trespass,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
pay  you  now." 

The  other  said,  "  The  law  will  fix  that." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  answered  Christopher,  and 
went  on.  He  reached  the  paling  surrounding  the 
park,  vaulted  it,  and  made  his  way  down  the  road. 

This  incident,  so  trifling,  so  insignificant,  and  so  dis- 
tasteful, was  destined  to  affect  the  life  of  the  outlaw  in 
a  manner  of  which  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to  dream. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  irritation  caused  by  this  disputa- 
tion which  gave  him  courage  to  present  himself  before 
Kindred.  There  was  just  sufficient  violence,  or  dis- 
turbance, in  this  encounter  to  shake  his  fixed  idea,  to 
weaken  the  invading  force  of  his  obsession.  It  gave 
him  something  else  to  think  about.  A  trivial  new 
event,  if  it  have  some  quality  of  violence,  is  often 
sufficient  to  banish  for  a  time  the  ruling  thought  of 
a  brain  preying  upon  itself. 

Christopher'walked  to  the  parsonage  on  the  second 
morning  of  his  arrival  in  Penraven.  He  expected  to 
find  an  almost  ruinous  manse  surrounded  by  a  veritable 

374 


The  Outlaw 

jungle.  Great,  then,  was  his  surprise  in  passing  the 
church  for  the  first  time,  and  opening  the  gate  of  the 
parsonage,  to  find  himself  in  a  garden  full  of  perfume 
and  colour,  looking  towards  a  house  whose  walls  were 
buried  under  roses.  The  scene  was  charming.  The 
atmosphere  was  exquisite.  He  felt  that  he  must  soon 
hear  children's  laughter  and  see  beautiful  faces  look 
from  the  windows,  which  all  stood  open  to  the  sun  and 
the  scented  air. 

The  silence  began  to  be  oppressive.  It  was  delight- 
ful to  find  no  gardeners  at  work — the  scene  was  a 
finished  picture,  and  the  presence  of  effort  would  have 
destroyed  its  charm — but  the  absence  of  children's 
voices,  the  absence  of  all  movement,  of  all  life,  was 
strange  and  perplexing.  This  place  of  beauty  and 
joy  had  above  all  other  characteristics  the  character  of 
a  human  home.  Christopher  felt  the  presence  of 
children  —  but  they  were  phantom  children.  The 
shaven  lawns,  the  grass  walks  arched  by  roses,  the 
wide  walled  borders  standing  thick  with  spires  and 
bells  and  sprays  of  every  lovely  flower,  the  rock 
garden  with  its  pale  colours  and  its  grey  stones,  the 
trim  hedges,  the  little  thickets  of  flowering  shrubs — 
all  this  was  haunted  for  Christopher  by  the  presence 
of  happy  children  ;  he  could  not  think  of  it  without 
children  ;  and  yet  the  silence  was  like  the  silence  of 
the  graveyard.  Not  a  sound  could  be  heard. 

He  went  to  the  door,  which  stood  open,  and  knocked. 
The  interior  of  the  house  looked  dull  and  depressing. 
He  could  imagine  this  dwelling  occupied  by  a  broken- 
hearted and  deserted  old  man  ;  but  not  the  garden. 

A  woman  came  from  the  back  regions.  She  was 
375 


The  Shadow 

old,  and  wore  a  rusty  bonnet.     As  she  advanced  up 
the  hall,  she  wiped  her  hands  on  a  coarse  apron. 

Christopher  asked  for  Mr.  Kindred.  The  woman 
opened  a  door,  evidently  the  study,  and  looked  in. 
She  closed  the  door  again,  and  said,  "If  he  isn't  in 
the  village,  he's  in  the  garden.  I  expect  you'll  find 
him  messing  himself  up  in  the  potting-shed,  there  or 
thereabouts."  She  returned  quickly  to  her  scrubbing. 

A  sound  of  hammering  guided  Christopher  in  his 
tour  of  the  garden  to  the  potting-shed.  As  he  ap- 
proached it,  he  noticed  three  or  four  wooden  boxes 
standing  at  the  door.  He  wondered,  with  a  sudden 
dull  pain  at  his  heart,  if  these  boxes  contained  flowers 
for  the  daughters  who  had  left  the  house  of  this  old 
man  desolate. 

He  came  to  the  door  and  looked  in.  The  gloom  of 
the  shed,  odorous  of  earth,  flowers,  and  earthenware, 
was  like  a  crypt.  Three  steps  led  down  to  the  brick 
floor ;  the  rough  beams  of  the  roof  were  hung  with 
baskets,  coils  of  wire,  and  garden  implements ;  the 
one  window  was  covered  with  cobwebs  and  looked  as 
though  a  frost  still  hung  there  from  the  winter.  At  a 
broad  shelf,  littered  with  soil,  pots,  boxes,  and  wooden 
labels,  Kindred — a  dim  figure  in  the  gloom — was 
bending  over  a  box,  which  he  had  just  fastened,  to 
inscribe  the  address.  For  this  purpose  he  used  a 
rounded  stick  dipped  in  ink,  printing  the  letters  in 
bold  capitals.  A  smile  shone  through  the  transparent 
pallor  of  his  face.  He  looked  happy. 

Christopher  said,  "  I  have  come  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Kindred.  After  a  great  many  years.  Do  you  re- 
member me  ? " 

376 


The  Outlaw 

The  clergyman,  who  had  lifted  his  face  from  the  box 
at  hearing  himself  addressed,  came  forward,  changing 
his  rude  pen  from  the  right  to  the  left  hand.  "  Whether 
I  remember  you  or  not,"  he  said,  in  a  gentle  voice,  "  I 
welcome  you." 

Christopher  took  his  hand.  "  You  were  very  kind 
to  me  years  ago  at  Glevering." 

"  You  are  Christopher  !  " 

There  was  such  joy  in  the  exclamation,  such  sweet- 
ness of  welcome,  such  unabated  warmth  of  affection, 
that  for  the  first  time  for  many  bitter  months  Chris- 
topher felt  his  heart  soften  and  grow  glad.  But  this 
delightful  experience  came  and  went  at  the  same 
moment.  He  reflected,  "  If  he  knew  the  truth  about 
me,  instead  of  this  warm  pressure  of  the  hand,  instead 
of  this  light  in  the  eyes,  instead  of  these  kind  words, 
it  would  be  D iscedite  Maledicti  !  I  must  make  myself 
a  liar  to  enjoy  the  welcome  of  this  good  man." 

The  old  clergyman  said,  "  Let  me  finish  this  address, 
and  we  will  go  out  into  the  sun  together." 

Christopher  was  amazed  and  confounded  to  see  in 
this  stricken  and  desolate  man,  whom  he  had  expected 
to  find  depressed,  dejected,  and  despairful,  a  spirit  of 
such  happy  pleasure.  He  concluded  that  the  story  he 
had  heard  was  exaggerated. 

Curiosity  concerning  the  daughters  who  had  left 
their  father  and  their  home,  caused  him  to  look  at  the 
box  over  which  his  old  tutor  was  now  bending.  But 
it  was  not  addressed  as  he  had  expected  it  to  be.  He 
read  there  the  name  of  a  hospital  for  sick  children  in 
London. 

"  We  send  all  the  flowers  we  can,"  said  the  Rector, 
377 


The  Shadow 

finishing  his  task, "  to  children  in  London.  I  remember 
how  I  missed  flowers  when  I  lived  in  London." 

When  they  were  walking  in  the  sun  together,  John 
Kindred,  taking  Christopher's  arm,  talked  of  their  old 
intimacy  at  Glevering  and  asked  questions  concerning 
the  Graftons.  Then  he  said,  "  And  your  mother,  who 
taught  me  so  much,  while  I  was  teaching  you  so 
little  ? " 

"  She  is  dead." 

The  hand  pressed  for  a  moment  on  Christopher's 
arm.  "  Then  all  these  beautiful  flowers,"  said  the 
clergyman  very  gently,  as  they  walked  down  an  aisle 
of  beauty,  "  must  mean  to  you  what  they  mean  to  me. 
They  slept  in  the  earth,  only  that  they  might  rise  in 
grace  and  beauty  to  the  light.  Their  glory  is  a  re- 
surrection. They  are  witnesses  of  God.  Everything 
that  is  beautiful  speaks  to  the  soul  of  God." 

Christopher  said  nothing. 

When  they  had  walked  round  the  garden  and  were 
entering  the  village  street,  Christopher  explained  that 
he  intended  to  study  some  little  time  in  that  part  of 
the  world.  He  said  that  he  wanted  to  paint  a  picture 
of  the  shepherd  he  had  met  on  Raven's  Scar,  and 
delivered  the  old  man's  message. 

"  There  are  people,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  who  call 
David  Warren  mad.  They  are  wrong.  You  dis- 
covered, I  expect,  that  while  great  sorrow  has  hurt  his 
heart  and  fastened  his  idea  of  God  to  one  aspect  of 
our  heavenly  Father's  providence,  on  the  other  hand 
his  reason  is  enlarged,  and  even  inspired,  by  poetry. 
You  must  talk  to  him.  He  is  a  Words worthian 
figure.  There  is  a  grandeur  about  his  soul.  God  has 

378 


The  Outlaw 

not  yet  seen  fit  to  convince  him  of  the  supreme  secret ; 
but  I  find  him  a  noble  and  heroic  man." 

They  reached  Christopher's  lodging,  and  Mr.  Kindred 
entered  the  farmhouse  to  see  how  his  old  pupil  was 
situated.  They  were  scarcely  in  the  room  when  the 
farm-wife  came  to  them.  She  looked  distressed. 

"  I  have  ill  news,"  she  said,  greeting  the  Rector  and 
addressing  him  rather  than  Christopher.  "  It's  against 
my  wishes  to  give  it,  as  you'll  be  the  first  to  know, 
Mr.  Kindred,  but  we're  only  tenant  people,  and  have 
others  over  us  that  we  must  obey  or  take  the  conse- 
quences." 

She  then  narrated  that  the  agent  of  the  Comte  de 
Lyons  had  paid  her  a  visit  that  morning,  and  told  her 
that  she  must  either  give  up  her  lodger  or  leave  the 
farm. 

Christopher  flared  up. 

"  But  this  is  good  news  ! "  said  the  clergyman,  inter- 
rupting him.  "  You  must  come  and  share  the  parson- 
age with  me."  He  said  gentle  things  to  the  farm-wife, 
and  then,  taking  Christopher's  arm,  said,  "  Come,  let  us 
begin  our  partnership  at  once.  It  will  be  delightful. 
I  am  so  glad.  Why,  this  is  a  greater  blessing  than 
an  old  man  deserves  at  the  end  of  his  life." 


379 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 
THE   INVISIBLE   INFLUENCE 

HP  HE  great  darkness  clouding  the  soul  of  Chris- 
1  topher  Grafton  was  the  impenetrable  shadow  of 
eternal  spiritual  despair.  His  tragedy  was  greater 
than  Hamlet's,  greater  than  Lear's.  He  was  not  in 
despair  against  the  world,  but  in  despair  against  his 
own  soul.  He  himself  had  brought  the  doom  upon 
him.  His  sin  appeared  so  frightful,  so  horrible,  and 
so  revolting  in  his  own  eyes,  that  he  could  not  bring 
himself  even  to  desire  mercy  and  forgiveness.  His 
state  of  outlawry  seemed  to  him  not  only  just  and 
inevitable,  but  one  with  the  fitness  of  things.  He  was 
like  a  man  who  voluntarily  gives  himself  up  to  justice, 
unable  to  live  at  peace  with  his  conscience  in  a  state 
of  freedom.  Christopher  could  find  no  room  for  peace 
in  the  whole  universe.  He  delivered  himself  up  to 
the  judgment  and  eternal  displeasure  of  God. 

Those  who  have  had  profound  experience  of  troubled 
souls  will  understand  the  cause  of  this  condition. 
Christopher  had  awakened  to  self-knowledge  ;  he  had 
not  altered  his  attitude  towards  God.  The  psychology 
of  repentance  is  one  with  the  psychology  of  human 
existence,  a  man's  attitude  towards  the  Infinite  deter- 
mines his  character. 

How  could  any  change  in  this  terrible  state  of  the 
380 


The  Invisible   Influence 

young  man's  soul  flow  from  intercourse  with  the  old 
clergyman,  who,  as  regards  things  of  this  world,  was  as 
a  child  ? 

Three  things  from  the  very  outset  of  this  intercourse 
affected  Christopher's  mind.  The  first  was  the  simplest 
of  all,  and  to  many  people  it  will  appear  an  insuffi- 
cient cause  of  change.  It  was  the  presence  in  his 
bedroom,  which  was  also  his  studio,  of  two  texts — "  I, 
the  Lord,  am  thy  Saviour  and  thy  Redeemer,"  from 
the  Old  Testament,  and  St.  Paul's  "  Christ  shall  give 
thee  light,"  from  the  New.  Every  morning  when  he 
woke,  the  first  salutation  he  received  was  from  the  lips 
of  Isaiah,  the  first  words  he  perceived  were  "  Saviour 
and  Redeemer."  Over  his  head,  while  he  slept,  was 
the  word  Christ — "  Christ  shall  give  thee  light."  He 
found  himself,  whenever  he  entered  the  room,  looking 
for  these  words.  He  might  forget  them  immediately, 
but  they  had  touched  his  mind.  Suddenly,  as  he 
walked  in  the  valley  or  up  the  mountains,  the  words 
would  rise  to  his  consciousness,  the  words  Christ, 
Saviour,  Redeemer,  and  he  would  ponder  them. 

There  is  no  magic  in  a  text  hung  upon  the  wall. 
It  is  a  thing  as  free  from  superstition  as  an  advertise- 
ment. How,  then,  does  it  act  upon  the  soul  ?  Precisely 
as  an  advertisement  upon  the  mind.  Indeed,  a  text  is 
an  advertisement  of  God,  it  advertises  the  soul  of 
eternal  reality.  When  a  merchant  sets  up  his  name 
and  the  name  of  his  merchandise  from  one  end  'of  the 
country  to  the  other,  he  does  not  think  that  people 
who  see  the  writing  will  go  straightway  and  purchase 
his  merchandise.  He  merely  associates  his  name  with 
a  particular  commodity,  and  the  repetition  of  this 


The  Shadow 

association  of  ideas  is  a  form  of  suggestion  in  the  mind 
of  those  who  look,  even  unconsciously,  at  the  printed 
words  from  a  train  window.  At  such  a  time  when 
a  man  wants  this  commodity,  he  will  at  once  associate 
it  with  the  name  of  the  advertiser,  and  will  then  order 
that  particular  manufacture  from  his  tradesman. 
This  is  the  simple  psychology  of  advertising,  a  subject 
which  provides  religion  with  at  least  one  important 
parable. 

In  the  little  Fenelon  which  Mary  Grafton  had  given 
to  her  son,  were  the  words  : 

"  A  man  whose  whole  heart  is  engaged  in  some  great  matter 
might  pass  many  days  in  a  room  attending  to  his  affairs, 
without  seeing  either  the  proportions  of  the  room,  the  ornaments 
on  the  shelves,  or  the  pictures  that  surrounded  him.  All  these 
objects  would  be  before  his  eyes,  but  he  would  not  see  them, 
and  they  would  make  no  impression  on  him.  Thus  it  is  that 
men  live.  Everything  presents  God  to  them,  but  they  do  not 
see  Him." 

A  text  exhibits  to  the  beguiled  mind  of  humanity 
the  supreme  factfof  human  existence.  It  strives  by 
repetition  to  make  an  impression.  The  man  who  hung 
the  first  text  was  a  wise  tradesman  of  God.  Is  it  not 
a  strange  reflection  that  the  earliest  fairy-stories  of 
humanity  so  often  represent  people  moving  like  char- 
acters in  a  dream  under  the  spells  and  enchantments 
of  evil  spirits  ?  Nothing  could  be  truer  of  humanity  at 
this  very  hour.  Englamoured  by  the  material  world, 
God  appears  shadowy  and  unreal  to  their  prisoned 
senses,  and  it  is  a  task  of  the  greatest  magnitude  to 
awaken  them  to  the  visible  truth  of  divine  things. 
They  believe,  in  their  dream-state,  that  the  transitory 

382 


The  Invisible  Influence 

visible  is  real  ;  that  the  invisible  real,  which  presses 
upon  the  brain  from  all  sides  of  the  universe,  is  a 
delusion.  The  ancient  cry  of  the  prophet,  "Awake, 
thou  that  sleepest ! "  is  not  a  metaphor. 

The  second  thing  in  his  intercourse  with  Mr.  Kindred 
which  affected  Christopher's  mind  was  the  clergyman's 
attitude  towards  death.  There  was  something  here  so 
new,  so  fresh,  so  illuminating  to  the  young  man  who 
had  thought  of  death  hitherto  only  as  unbroken  silence 
and  a  final  ending  of  humanity,  that  his  brain,  brought 
to  contemplate  a  new  form  of  thought,  unconsciously 
responded  at  least  to  the  stimulus,  if  not  to  the  idea. 

One  afternoon  as  they  worked  together  in  the 
churchyard,  for  Mr.  Kindred  was  his  own  gardener, 
bell-ringer,  organist,  and  sacristan,  and  loved  to  make 
the  place  of  graves  beautiful  with  flowers,  the  Rector 
said,  "There  appears  to  be  something  very  solitary 
about  death,  especially  when  one  sees  a  coffin  being 
brought  slowly  up  the  valley  to  this  ancient  resting- 
place,  with  its  little  train  of  mourners.  Perhaps  we 
are  more  distressed  by  this  apparent  solitariness  at  the 
deathbed  of  one  whom  we  love.  It  seems  so  terrible, 
so  lonely,  to  watch  our  dear  ones  fade  from  the  warm 
precincts  of  the  day  into  the  darkness  and  the  silence 
of  what  we  call  death.  I  remember  how  distressed  I 
used  to  be  by  this  loneliness,  this  solitariness  of  death, 
in  the  early  years  of  my  ministry.  The  dying  person 
before  one's  eyes,  the  stir  and  noise  of  the  world  outside 
in  one's  ears.  But  have  you  ever  thought  what  IP 
\  means,  that  every  day  there  ascends  from  this  planet 
'  to  the  shores  of  eternity  a  host  of  nearly  fortyjftojjsjmcl 
I  souls  ?  Every  day !  even  as  you  and  I  kneel  here 

383 


The  Shadow 

tending  these  flowers  of  the  dead — yes,  at  this  very 
instant,  the  shining  procession  of  ascending  souls  is 
moving  towards  God — a  great  company.  The  air,  if 
we  could  but  see,  is  always  beautiful  and  glad  with  the 
ascent  of  this  wonderful  multitude.  Does  not  that 
thought,  that  realisation  of  a  great  fact  in  existence, 
rob  death  of  all  sense  of  loneliness  ?  Death  is  not 
something  which  happens  here,  or  there,  at  intervals ; 
it  is  everlasting  and  perpetual.  You  see,  there  can 
never  be  a  break  in  this  glorious  ascension  of  immortal 
spirits  ;  it  is  indeed  everlasting,  a  continual  stream  of 
spirit  from  time  to  eternity.  Day  and  night,  every 
hour,  every  minute,  there  is  this  uprush  of  disembodied 
souls.  Think  what  it  means,  that  if  we  could  stand  at 
a  certain  point  midway  between  earth  and  heaven  only 
for  the  changes  of  a  single  moon,  we  should  see  a 
million  souls  go  past  us.  Think,  too,  what  it  means 
that  when  you  and  I  pass  out  of  the  body  of  this  death 
we  shall  be  one  of  a  vast  company  dying  and  ascending 
to  the  mercy  and  the  glory  of  our  Heavenly  Father. 
Not  alone.  Not  solitary.  No,  thank  God,  not  deserted 
or  abandoned  even  for  a  single  moment.  And  surely 
angels  are  guiding  that  great  army  of  ascending  souls. 
I  like  the  thought  which  says  that  birth  is  an  out- 
breathing,  and  death  an  inbreathing  of  the  Divine 
Spirit.  One  sees  the  stream  of  spirits  descending  to 
be  born,  and  the  stream  of  spirits  ascending  to  be  with 
God,  like  the  vision  of  Jacob.  The  ladder  of  existence 
is  radiant  with  the  love  of  God." 

Christopher  discovered  that  here  was  a  man  whose 
great  longing  was  for  death,  and  whose  chief  pleasure 
was  anticipation  of  the  bliss  and  satisfaction  of  Paradise. 

384 


The  Invisible  Influence 

"  The  love  of  Heaven,"  says  Shakespeare,  "  makes  one 
heavenly."  It  is  a  true  saying,  not  apprehended  as  it 
deserves  to  be. 

The  third  thing  which  operated  in  Christopher's 
mind  was  the  attitude  which  Mr.  Kindred  maintained 
towards  him  in  all  their  conversations.  The  effect  of 
this  spiritual  and  mental  relationship  was  more  subtle 
than  the  other  two.  The  clergyman,  with  his  simple 
piety,  his  childlike  confidence  in  the  love  of  God,  his 
wonderful  looking  forward  to  the  bliss  of  eternity, 
never  for  one  moment  treated  his  guest  as  a  soul 
whose  attitude  towards  spiritual  things  was  different 
from  his  own.  Christopher  found  himself  not  only 
ranked  as  a  Christian,  but  exalted  to  the  company  of 
those  who  love  God  and  desire  His  presence  above 
everything  else.  He  was  made  a  Christian,  as  it  were, 
unconsciously ;  one  might  say,  against  his  own  will. 

Precisely  the  same  quality  of  disposition  which  had 
made  him  weak  against  temptations  among  the 
students  of  Paris,  made  him  weak  to  confess  his  true 
position  to  this  noble  man,  his  host.  He  masqueraded 
as  a  Christian.  We  do  not  mean,  God  forbid,  that 
he  played  the  hypocrite.  No,  he  was  not  despicable. 
But  he  kept  silence  ;  he  expressed  no  antagonism  ;  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  considered  a  member  of  the 
household  of  faith,  because  he  did  not  wish  to  give 
pain. 

This  passive  condition  of  mind  was  fraught  with 
consequences  for  his  soul.  He  received  into  his  soul, 
unconsciously  at  first,  and  presently  with  a  dumb 
amazement,  the  peace  of  this  pure  old  man  who  loved 
God  and  wistfully  yearned  for  heaven. 

385  2  c 


The  Shadow 

The  texts  on  his  wall  made  him  aware  of  three 
words,  "  Christ,  Saviour,  Redeemer "  ;  the  minister's 
attitude  towards  death  made  him  think  of  the  next  life 
as  a  reality ;  and  the  minister's  attitude  towards  himself 
gave  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  knowledge  of 
some  deep  peace  exceeding  all  the  satisfactions  of  the 
world. 

Christopher  went  to  church.  He  went  for  two 
reasons — not  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  his  host,  and  to 
prevent  questions.  The  prayers  had  little  significance 
for  his  mind,  which  was  too  proud  in  its  sorrow  for  the 
humility  of  penitence.  As  for  the  hymns,  the  in- 
different singing  of  simple  peasants  was  all  the 
impression  he  received  from  them.  Mr.  Kindred's 
preaching  was  as  plain  as  its  subject  was  simple ;  he 
"  talked  "  to  his  little  flock  affectionately  and  tenderly 
of  the  love  of  God.  Christopher  was  never  moved  by 
one  of  these  discourses. 

And  yet,  as  time  went  on,  his  mind  became  conscious 
of  some  deep  change.  Bitterness  was  leaving  his 
thoughts.  Restlessness  was  withdrawing  from  his  soul. 
He  felt  disposed  to  remain  where  he  was.  The  thought 
of  shouldering  his  knapsack  and  continuing  his  wander- 
ing, passing  on,  like  night,  from  land  to  land,  became 
more  and  more  rare  with  him. 

He  lived  his  own  life  ;  Mr.  Kindred  never  interfered. 
They  met  at  meals,  occasionally  Christopher  worked 
in  the  garden  or  went  across  the  hills  with  his  host  to 
visit  a  sick  parishioner.  They  frequently  talked  at 
such  times  of  subjects  which  were  profoundly  religious, 
but  their  conversation  was  never  controversial  or 
doctrinal.  Mr.  Kindred  appeared  to  assume  in  Chris- 

386 


The  Invisible  Influence 

topher  a  faith  which  was  above  the  region  of  defini- 
tions, and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Christopher 
kept  away  from  Holy  Communion.  Never  once  did 
the  clergyman  speak  of  this  absence. 

It  was  when  Christopher  sat  by  himself  painting  at 
the  open  window  of  his  bedroom  that  he  was  most 
conscious  of  the  change  taking  place  in  his  mind.  He 
was  amazed  at  himself.  The  peace  stealing  into  his 
soul,  he  knew  not  whence,  astonished  him.  He  would 
wonder  why  he  was  not  maddened  by  daily  intercourse 
with  a  man  who  lived  in  the  sunshine  of  God's  love 
and  whose  soul  in  the  midst  of  desolation  was  poised 
joyously  and  expectantly  for  heaven. 

He  reflected  often  on  John  Kindred's  life.  This 
old  man,  deserted  by  his  daughters  and  having  only 
eighty  pounds  a  year  for  his  own  needs  and  the  needs 
of  his  church,  was  at  peace,  was  happy.  The  flowers 
overflowing  his  garden,  the  fruit  in  the  orchard  which 
he  pruned  and  watched  so  carefully,  were  not  for 
himself,  but  were  for  the  poor  and  suffering  in  London. 
Not  all  the  flowers,  however.  Christopher  discovered 
that  every  day  the  old  man  filled  a  vase  and  carried  it 
to  the  bedroom  of  his  youngest  daughter,  which  was 
always  kept  ready  for  her.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
neighbourhood  intellectually  his  equal.  He  had  shabby 
clothes.  His  food  was  like  a  peasant's.  He  gave  away 
money.  Lonely,  deserted,  poor,  and  perhaps  hungry, 
this  old  man  was  happy  as  he  had  never  seen  any 
man  before.  It  was  a  life  which  made  Christopher 
think. 

The  autumn  came  and  went  Winter  approached 
with  a  gentleness  that  deepened  as  it  lengthened. 

387  2  c  2 


The  Shadow 

On  Christmas  Day  the  windows  of  the  parsonage 
were  standing  wide  open  to  the  soft  air,  and  some 
Gloire  de  Dijon  roses  were  flowering  in  the  garden. 
People  spoke  about  a  green  Christmas,  and  shook 
their  heads. 

A  change  came  when  spring  should  have  made  her 
appearance.  A  wind  began  to  move  down  the  valley 
from  the  north.  The  blue  of  the  sky  changed  to  a 
steel  grey.  Windows  that  had  stood  open  on  Christmas 
Day,  closed.  People  went  about  in  mufflers  and  top- 
coats. The  Mad  Shepherd,  whose  portrait  Christopher 
was  painting,  prophesied  snow. 

Before  the  snow  came  the  blizzard.  Night  and  day, 
with  increasing  violence,  a  great  wind  drove  between 
the  mountains  and  howled  down  the  valley.  Trees 
writhed  and  moaned  in  this  driving  blast,  filling  the 
valley  with  their  tossings  and  their  screams.  Doors 
and  windows  shook  and  rattled  from  morning  to  night, 
from  night  to  morning.  And  then,  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  hills,  one  day  came  a  burst  of  white  flakes,  like 
a  puff  of  smoke  ;  in  a  minute  the  hills  vanished,  and  the 
whole  valley  was  a  whirl  of  snow. 

The  great  snowstorm  lasted  for  ten  days.  On  the 
seventh  day  Mr.  Kindred  fell  ill.  He  was  over- 
taken by  a  shivering  fit,  and  do  what  he  would,  he 
could  not  feel  warm.  He  appeared  better  on  the 
eighth  day,  which  was  Sunday,  and  insisted,  in 
spite  of  Christopher's  dissuasion,  on  taking  the  usual 
services. 

"  I  am  only  one,"  he  said,  "  of  a  great  company  who 
all  over  the  world  lead  the  voice  of  humanity  in  its 
cry  to  God.  The  others  will  be  praying  through  the 

388 


The  Invisible   Influence 

snowstorm.  We,  too,  must  pray.  Have  you  ever 
stood  on  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  or  on  the  brow 
of  some  tall  cliff,  and  seen  the  towers  and  spires  of 
churches  rising  up  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  each 
witnessing  to  the  cry  of  the  centuries — Thy  kingdom 
come!  Such  a  sight  always  moves  me.  It  teaches 
me  to  think  that  in  spite  of  sorrow  and  sin,  under 
almost  every  roof  built  by  the  hands  of  men  there  is 
surely  someone  who  prays  to  God.  On  both  sides  of 
the  globe,  from  crowded  cities,  noble  towns,  and  little 
hamlets,  the  voice  of  humanity,  conscious  of  something 
better  than  itself  can  accomplish,  ascends  to  God  with 
the  petition — Thy  kingdom  come ;  Thy  will  be  done  in 
earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven  !  " 

But  during  this  service  in  the  midst  of  the  snow- 
storm, the  devoted  minister,  who  had  himself  rung  the 
church  bell  and  who  had  played  the  organ  for  the 
Venite,  leaned  towards  Christopher  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  Psalms  and  by  a  motion  of  the  head  called  him 
to  his  side. 

"  I  am  too  weak  to  read  the  Lessons,"  he  whispered ; 
"  will  you  do  it  for  me  ? " 

It  may  be  imagined  what  effect  this  request  had 
upon  the  storm-tossed  soul  of  the  outlaw  of  God.  For 
a  moment  he  thought  of  refusing  ;  for  a  moment  he 
thought  of  hurrying  out  from  the  church  and  fleeing 
for  ever  from  the  presence  of  the  old  servant  of  God, 
whose  eyes  were  too  dim  and  whose  heart  was  too 
childlike  to  perceive  the  blackness  of  his  soul.  But  he 
was  held  by  invisible  hands.  Some  irresistible  impulse 
moved  him  towards  the  lectern.  Before  he  realised 
what  had  happened  he  was  reading. 

3% 


The  Shadow 

How  did  it  strike  the  soul  of  this  man  to  utter  in 
the  congregation  of  that  little  church,  with  the  wind 
howling  at  the  windows  and  roaring  over  the  roof, 
such  words  as  these  ?  "  And  when  Esau  heard  the 
words  of  his  father,  he  cried  with  a  great  and  exceeding 
bitter  cry,  and  said  unto  his  father,  '  Bless  me,  even  me 
also,  O  my  father.' "  Or  these  words  in  the  second 
lesson  ?  "  A  bruised  reed  shall  He  not  break,  a 
smoking  flax  shall  He  not  quench,  till  He  send  forth 
judgment  unto  victory."  Unto  victory  ! 

The  experience  produced  a  profound  impression  on 
the  troubled  soul  of  this  poor  haunted  man.  He  was 
conscious  at  first  of  horror  that  he  should  have  stood 
up  in  a  church  and  read  the  Bible  aloud.  His  sense 
of  guilt  taunted  him  with  hypocrisy.  But  some 
stubborn  force  of  passivity  that  almost  amounted  to 
fatalism  held  this  mockery  at  arm's  length.  He  knew 
that  he  was  not  a  hypocrite. 

Every  day  after  this  incident  Mr.  Kindred  visibly 
weakened.  Christopher  waited  on  him  with  the 
devotion  of  a  son.  The  old  man  constantly  ex- 
pressed a  delighted  gratitude  for  this  attentive 
kindness. 

"Your  presence  here,  Christopher,  is  one  of  my 
greatest  blessings,"  he  said  one  evening  ;  "  and,  but 
for  the  ill-will  of  the  Comte  de  Lyons,  I  might  have 
been  quite  alone.  There  is  often  a  mercy  even  in  the 
unkindness  of  those  who  do  not  love  us." 

"  It  would  be  better,"  Christopher  answered,  "  if  one 
of  your  daughters  were  here." 

Mr.  Kindred  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
very  quietly,  wistfully,  "  I  hope  they  are  happy." 

390 


The  Invisible  Influence 

Christopher  said, "  Let  me  write  and  ask  one  of  them 
to  come  to  you." 

"  No,  Christopher  ;  it  is  better  as  it  is.  My  children," 
he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  have  not  been  successful 
in  their  earthly  affairs.  I  am  afraid  they  are  not  happy. 
One  of  them  cannot  come  to  me — she  is  married  ;  and 
to  come  to  this  village  would  distress  the  other.  We 
must  rest  as  we  are.  If  I  thought  I  could  make  them 
happy  I  should  go  to  them.  I  shall  give  as  little  trouble 
as  possible,  and  you  must  be  as  patient  as  you  have 
been  up  to  now."  He  ended  with  a  smile. 

"  But,"  Christopher  persisted,  "  if  they  knew  that  you 
were  ill  they  would  wish  to  come." 

Mr.  Kindred  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  became  soft 
with  tears. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  hope  so,"  he  said  gently.  "  Yes,  I  think 
they  would.  But  it  is  better  as  it  is."  He  made  an 
effort  to  brace  himself,  and  said,  "  You  must  not  think 
that  I  am  seriously  ill,  Christopher !  If  I  thought  that 
the  happy  hour  of  my  release  were  at  hand  I  should 
call  them  both  to  my  side." 

Three  weeks  passed.  Mr.  Kindred's  health  showed 
no  signs  of  mending.  Christopher  read  the  lessons  in 
church,  went  with  messages,  pensions,  and  gifts  to 
parishioners  scattered  among  the  mountains,  rang  the 
bell  every  week-day  for  matins  and  on  Sunday  for  the 
two  services,  and  did  many  other  useful  things  for  his 
host. 

One  day,  as  he  was  writing  letters  at  the  dictation 
of  Mr.  Kindred,  who  sat  in  an  armchair  beside  the 
study  fire,  it  chanced  that  the  clergyman's  memory 
failed  him  concerning  an  address.  He  asked  Chris- 

391 


The  Shadow 

topher  to  refer  to  a  notebook  in  one  of  the  drawers  of 
the  table. 

Christopher  pulled  out  the  drawer,  lifted  some 
papers,  and  came  upon  a  photograph  which  made 
him  start. 

"  Who  is  this  ? "  he  demanded,  before  he  was  aware 
of  his  words. 

Mr.  Kindred  turned  towards  him  inquiringly. 

Christopher  wavered  for  a  moment,  and  then  held 
up  the  photograph. 

"  That  is  poor  Rose,"  said  the  clergyman  quietly. 
"  Why  do  you  ask  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  her." 

"  I  wonder ! " 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure." 

"  Where,  Christopher  ? " 

"  It  was  in  Paris." 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  there." 

"  It  was  four  years  ago." 

"  How  strange  this  is.  Yes,  she  was  there  four  years 
ago.  But  did  not  the  name  strike  you  when  you  met  ? " 

"  The  name  !     I  did  not  hear  it." 

"  Did  you  only  see  her,  not  speak  to  her  ? " 

"  I  saw  her,  I  spoke  to  her  for  a  moment.  It  was 
in  a  crowded  scene.  I  remember  distinctly.  This  is 
very  like  her." 

"  Yes,  it  is  like  my  poor  little  Rose." 

"  Is  she  unhappy  ? " 

"  Yes,  unhappy." 

**  I  will  not  say  that  I  am  sorry,"  said  Christopher. 
"  I  have  a  sympathy  with  unhappy  souls." 

"  Surely  you  mean  troubled  souls." 
392 


'  THAT   IS   POOR   ROSE,'    SAID   THE   CLERGYMAN    QUIETLY. 


The  Invisible  Influence 

"  Is  she  still  like  this  ? "  His  eyes  were  bent  upon 
the  picture. 

"  You  think  her  beautiful  ? " 

"  It  is  a  face  one  could  not  forget." 

"  Let  me  see.  Yes,  it  is  a  good  likeness.  She  is 
altered  since  those  days  ;  but  the  photograph  is  perhaps 
truer  now  than  then.  Here  she  is  serious,  she  was  not 
often  serious  in  those  days." 

He  gave  back  the  photograph. 

"  And  now  she  is  serious  ?  Well,  I  should  like  to 
paint  her  portrait.  This" — Christopher  held  up  the 
photograph — "  is  only  beautiful  to  those  who  have  seen 
her  ;  the  tone  of  the  skin,  the  colour  of  her  lips  and 
eyes,  and  the  light  in  the  hair — they  might  be  any- 
thing here.  A  camera  is  not  a  soul,  it  is  not  even  a 
looking-glass." 

The  finding  of  this  picture  revived  in  Christopher's 
mind  the  terrible  memory  of  his  life.  Rose  Kindred 
was  the  frightened  girl  he  had  saved  from  the  students' 
ball  ;  but  though  her  eyes,  looking  out  at  him  from 
the  photograph,  reminded  him  of  that  night  when  he 
did  a  thing  of  deadly  evil,  that  night  when  he  dealt  a 
death-blow  at  his  mother's  heart  and  slew  his  own  soul, 
yet  he  found  a  pleasure,  a  wild  and  exciting  pleasure, 
in  meeting  their  gaze.  He  asked  if  he  might  take  the 
photograph  to  make  a  sketch  from  it,  and  carried  it  to 
his  room. 

For  days  he  studied  it ;  the  girl's  face  haunted  him. 
He  would  take  up  the  picture,  carry  it  to  the  window, 
and  stand  with  it  there  in  his  hand,  receiving  into  his 
mind  mysterious  influences  from  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her 
lips.  He  would  frown  down  upon  the  picture  in  his 

393 


The  Shadow 

hand,  with  the  countenance  of  a  learned  man  con- 
sidering some  problem  in  natural  science,  and  ask  her 
why  she  was  troubled,  why  she  was  unhappy  ? 

It  came  upon  him  with  a  shock  of  horror  that  this 
beautiful  pure  girl,  whom  he  had  once  seen  frightened, 
apprehensive,  and  timorous  in  her  innocence,  had 
become  since  that  day  a  thing  like  himself,  guilty  and 
corrupt. 

"  No,  no ! "  he  cried  to  himself,  and  shuddered,  feeling 
the  blood  ice  in  his  veins. 

He  remembered  her  voice,  her  startled  terrified  look 
at  the  robe  he  was  wearing.  The  scene  was  as  vivid 
as  yesterday.  He  had  gone  to  the  two  cowering, 
shrinking  girls,  besieged  by  laughing  and  mocking 
students,  and  had  said  with  a  boyish  self-conscious- 
ness, "  I  am  sure  you  do  not  know  where  you  have 
come  ;  let  me  assist  you  to  go."  They  had  sprung  at 
him.  One  said : 

"  A  trick  has  been  played  upon  us ;  tickets  were  sent 
to  me ;  I  thought  it  was  different." 

Rose  had  said,  "  Take  us  out,  take  us  out  quickly." 

As  he  helped  them  to  escape  from  the  crowd  of 
riotous  students,  he  said  to  Rose,  "  I  am  glad  I  saw 
you,  I  recognised  you  as  English ;  I  knew  you  ought 
not  to  be  here." 

Without  looking  at  him  she  had  said,  "  No  one 
ought  to  be  here." 

"  Oh,"  he  had  answered,  "  a  man  of  the  world 
is  quite  safe  in  a  place  of  this  kind."  To  this  she 
had  returned  no  answer.  It  was  the  other  who  thanked 
him  when  he  parted  from  them. 

What  had  she  done? — what  evil  had  overtaken  her? 
394 


The  Invisible  Influence 

The  question  fastened  upon  his  mind.  Contact 
with  John  Kindred,  perhaps,  had  given  him  a  deeper 
appreciation  of  innocence,  of  goodness.  He  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  this  girl  as  not  innocent  and  not 
good. 

He  questioned  the  Mad  Shepherd.  "  I  know  not 
where  the  maid  is,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  but  it  must 
be  evil  that  keeps  her,  for  God's  will  is  that  she 
should  be  with  her  father." 

Christopher  asked,  "Was  there  no  incident,  no 
gossip,  before  she  went  away  ? " 

"Aye,  gossip  enough  to  keep  all  the  cottagers 
chattering  from  one  end  of  vale  to  other,  but  not 
enough  to  reach  these  tops  of  t'  mountains." 

"  You  mean,  that  you  never  heard  anything  ? " 

"  I  heard  what  parson  told  me." 

"That?" 

"  I  asked  him  one  afternoon,  '  How  is  Miss  Rose  ?' 
He  answered,  '  She  has  gone  away.'  '  Left  you  ? '  I 
asked.  He  looked  at  me  and  said,  '  I  am  not  alone.'  " 
The  shepherd  drew  a  rough  hand  across  his  bearded 
mouth,  and  said,  "  Like  me,  he  loved  too  well.  God 
would  have  their  parents  rule  their  children.  You 
heard  tempest  last  summer,  you  were  up  here  one 
day  in  t'  blizzard — tell  me,  is  God  to  be  feared  ?  If 
ever  God  gives  you  children,  look  well  that  for  their 
sakes  you  bring  them  up  to  fear  the  Lord." 

From  an  old  peasant  up  the  valley,  to  whom  he 
had  often  gone  on  errands  from  the  Rector,  Chris- 
topher received  his  first  narrative  of  this  domestic 
trouble. 

"  Ah,  the  dear  parson  has  had  sorrow  enough  with 
395 


The  Shadow 

his  two  lasses,"  said  the  ancient  dame ;  "  I  doubt 
greatly  whether  'twould  be  any  comfort  to  him,  as 
you  think,  to  have  the  poor  young  things  round  him 
now  he's  ill.  There  was  first  Miss  Louise,  who  was 
wild  as  a  colt,  and  more  like  a  boy  than  a  girl.  It 
was  dreadful  to  see  her  riding  any  young  horse  she 
could  get  hold  of  on  the  hillside,  just  like  a  mad 
thing.  Over  the  stone  fences,  and  over  the  rivers — 
nothing  frightened  her.  And  she  seemed  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  beating  a  horse  or  a  dog  that  set  its  will 
against  hers.  She  shocked  many  a  man  ;  and  yet 
there  was  something  fine  about  her,  and  never  did  I 
know  her  anything  but  kind  to  poor  people  in  trouble. 
Ah !  you'd  wonder  to  think  that  such  a  sweet  soul 
as  parson  could  have  a  child  like  that  harum-scarum  ! 
They  say  that  when  his  wife  died,  who  was  as  near 
an  angel  as  he  is  himself,  he  had  to  go  away  tutoring 
to  earn  food  for  the  young  ladies.  They  came  here 
for  a  bit,  where  his  father  and  mother  were,  and  ran 
wild,  for  the  old  folks  let  them  do  what  they  pleased  ; 
then  they  went  to  relations,  who  were  wild  like 
themselves ;  and  so  they  grew  up  to  be  what  they 
are  now. 

"  Soon  after  he  succeeded  his  father  they  came  here, 
but  very  soon  went  back  to  their  relations,  not  caring 
for  this  quiet  place,  and  parson  not  being  rich  enough 
to  educate  them  as  young  ladies.  When  they  did 
come  back,  grown  young  ladies,  a  wilder  than  Miss 
Louise  could  not  be  seen ;  people  say  she  defied  her 
father,  mocked  him,  and  laughed  at  his  teachings.  I 
pray  God  it  be  not  true.  But  she  was  hard  ;  I  never 
saw  a  woman  more  like  a  man,  and  never  knew  a  man 

396 


The  Invisible   Influence 

harder  and  more  cruel  than  this  woman."  The  dame 
lifted  her  hands  and  raised  her  eyes. 

"  What  became  of  her  ? " 

"  Ah !  you  may  well  ask  !  It's  a  story  of  shame  ; 
I  don't  like  to  tell  of  it,  but  everybody  knows  the 
tale — she  was  fond  of  low  company,  mixing  up 
with  any  rough  men  who  knew  about  horses  and 
dogs  and  foxes ;  she  didn't  care  whether  they  were 
good  or  bad,  so  long  as  they  could  teach  her 
something  to  do  with  animals.  Oh,  she  was  wild 
and  mad,  I  tell  you !  Well,  what  comes  of  it  ? 
She  married  a  groom  that  used  to  be  at  Lord 
Penraven's,  a  man  who  feared  nothing,  and  goes  off 
with  him  to  'keep  an  inn  in  Yorkshire,  where  she  is 
to  this  day." 

"  And  Miss  Rose  ? "  Christopher's  heart  stood  for 
the  answer. 

"  Ah !  poor  dear  young  lady !  She  was  different ; 
there  was  never  anything  cruel  or  manlike  in  her 
wildness.  She  was  just  one  of  those  who  must  be 
looked  at  and  admired,  and  who  think  that  the 
end  of  beauty  is  the  end  of  life.  Foolish,  fond,  but 
not  a  scrap  of  badness  in  her — no,  I  know  there 
wasn't.  She  was  soft  and  weak,  but  not  at  all  like 
Miss  Louise,  and  Miss  Louise  ruled  her  and  could 
make  her  do  anything  she  chose.  Well,  just  before 
Miss  Louise  got  married  and  went  away,  Lord  Pen- 
raven  died,  and  they  sold  the  Hall  to  this  French 
Count,  and  then " 

"Yes?" 

Christopher  was  trembling. 

"  Well,  there  was  trouble." 

397 


The  Shadow 

He  got  up,  his  face  was  white.  "  You  don't  mean 
— you — you  can't  mean — — " 

"  No  one  has  ever  heard  the  truth,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "All  we  know  is  that  they  were  always 
together,  Miss  Rose  and  the  French  nobleman  ;  she 
was  invited  to  the  Hall,  where  her  father  never  went, 
introduced  to  all  the  grand  people,  drove  in  the 
Count's  carriage,  went  to  Paris  with  one  of  the  Count's 
relations,  a  lady  whom  some  say  was  equal  to  an 
English  Princess,  and  gave  out  herself  that  she  was 
to  be  married  to  the  Count  in  a  year  or  two's  time. 
You  never  saw  a  happier  or  a  more  proudful  young 
creature  than  she  was  then  ;  some  of  the  people  shook 
their  heads  about  her.  Ah !  poor  child,  the  Lord 
comfort  her !  All  of  a  sudden  she  went  clean  away. 
No  one  ever  heard  why.  But  many  laughed  bitterly, 
and  some  spoke  cruel  words  about  her.  That's  all 
we  know.  From  that  day  to  this  she  has  never 
returned,  she  nor  her  sister,  and  the  old  gentleman 
lives  by  himself  in  the  parsonage,  as  you  know ; 
neither  one  nor  other  of  his  children  ever  comes  near 
him." 

Christopher  could  scarcely  bring  himself  to  speak. 
"  Where  is  Miss  Rose  ? "  he  managed  to  ask. 

"Folks  say  she  is  with  her  sister,  down  in  York- 
shire," replied  the  dame  ;  "  but  I've  never  heard  the 
truth.  The  story  is,  she  ran  there  and  begged  her 
sister  to  take  her  in." 

"  Where  in  Yorkshire  ? " 

"  The  place  is  called  Blakeney ;  in  old  days  Lord 
Penraven  had  a  house  there  for  the  hunting.  People 
say  that  Miss  Louise,  who  is  now  Mrs.  Conder,  keeps 

393 


The  Invisible   Influence 

the  inn  like  any  publican's  wife,  while  her  children 
run  about  in  the  yard,  with  dogs  and  chickens,  just 
like  little  heathen." 

Three  days  after  he  had  heard  this  story,  Christophei 
told  Mr.  Kindred  that  he  must  go  away  for  a  few 
days.  He  feared  awkward  questions,  and  spoke  off- 
handedly. 

"  I  shall  miss  you,"  was  the  only  comment  made 
by  the  gentle  old  man. 

The  thought  that  Rose  Kindred  was  like  himself, 
smirched  and  corrupted,  after  having  tortured  his  soul, 
became  presently  a  strangely  calming  tenant  of  his 
brain.  He  felt  that  he  would  better  understand  her 
thus,  and  that  she  would  come  nearer  to  him.  There 
is  a  companionship  of  remorse  and  adversity.  He 
longed  to  see  her,  to  speak  to  her ;  whatever  she 
had  suffered,  to  whatever  evil  she  had  come,  in  her 
soul,  he  was  fairly  persuaded,  this  lovely  child  with 
the  large  eyes  and  gentle  lips  was  good.  "  If  there 
is  a  God,"  he  told  himself,  "  she  is  His  child,  and 
He  has  not  deserted  her" — strange  words  for  him  to 
use  even  in  communion  with  himself. 

Before  leaving  Penraven  he  made  arrangements  for 
the  servant  to  sleep  in  the  parsonage,  left  money  with 
her  for  the  Rector's  comforts,  and  set  out  with  the 
hope  that  he  would  presently  return  bringing  Rose 
Kindred  to  her  father's  side. 

As  he  walked  to  the  station  a  carriage  passed 
him.  It  contained  the  Comte  de  Lyons  and  his 
chaplain.  Both  men  turned  and  looked  at  him. 


399 


CHAPTER   XXV 
THE    SISTERS 

rPHE  Hound  Inn  at  Blakeney  is  close  to  the  railway 
1  station.  One  looks  from  the  platform  into  the 
yard,  with  its  ostler's  bell  hanging  above  the 
kitchen  door,  its  open  shed  for  carriages  and  carts,  its 
range  of  half-doored  loose-boxes,  its  row  of  kennels, 
and  its  litter  of  wooden  cases  brought  from  the  cellars. 
Fowls  clean  themselves  in  the  dust  of  this  yard; 
pigeons  strut  and  coo  on  the  red  tiles  of  its  out- 
buildings. When  the  iron  handle  of  the  pump  is  not 
swinging  in  the  grasp  of  a  groom  or  a  girl  from  the 
kitchen,  sparrows  come  and  drink  of  the  afterflow  that 
runs  spirting  into  the  sink.  The  men  who  lounge  in 
this  shabby  and  untidy  yard  are  cattle-dealers,  second- 
rate  grooms,  drovers,  and  hangers-on  of  the  turf. 

The  front  of  the  house  is  more  pleasing  to  the  eye. 
There  are  two  bay-windows  on  either  side  of  the  door, 
a  beautifully  rounded  bow-window  over  the  porch,  and 
the  yellow  walls  under  the  heavy  eaves  of  red  tiles  are 
covered  by  close-clinging  ivy.  The  gravel  sweep  is 
protected  from  the  road  by  posts  and  chains.  The 
name  is  written  in  old  characters  on  a  board  that 
swings  in  a  frame  at  the  top  of  a  white  post  near  the 
road. 

When  Christopher  approached  this  inn  from  the 
400 


The    Sisters 

station  a  man  was  standing  under  the  porch  with  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat.  He  wore  a 
dirty-white  billycock  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  had  the  end 
of  a  cigar  between  his  lips.  On  his  lean,  grey-coloured, 
clean-shaven  face  was  every  mark  of  that  hardness 
which  declares  the  professional  horseman.  His 
brutality  had  a  coldness  and  a  challenge  which  made 
gentle  natures  shrink  and  shudder. 

Just  as  Christopher  was  within  a  pace  or  two  of  the 
porch  a  woman  came  from  the  house  and  said  some- 
thing to  the  man  in  the  doorway.  He  replied  to  her 
without  turning  his  head,  without  altering  his  attitude, 
without  removing  his  cigar.  She  said  something  else. 
He  made  no  answer.  After  waiting,  looking  at  him 
for  a  moment  to  see  if  he  would  speak,  the  woman 
turned  round  and  entered  the  house. 

Christopher  followed  her.  There  was  a  room  on 
one  side  of  the  hall  full  of  rough  men  drinking  and 
smoking ;  on  the  other  was  a  rounded  small-paned 
window,  the  lower  sash  raised,  with  a  bar  and  bar- 
parlour  beyond  it.  A  boy  was  waiting  at  the  window 
with  a  tray  ;  the  woman  was  in  the  bar  rilling  glasses. 
When  she  had  loaded  his  tray  and  the  boy  had  departed, 
she  looked  up  at  Christopher. 

He  raised  his  hat.  "  I  am  a  friend  of  your  father," 
he  said  ;  "  my  name  is  Grafton." 

She  flushed  up,  stared  at  him  with  a  certain  bravado, 
and  then,  folding  her  arms,  asked  in  a  rough  voice, 
"  How  is  he  ? " 

She  looked  hard  and  embittered.  The  handsome 
lines  of  her  face  were  coarsened  by  the  mutiny  of  her 
spirit.  Her  eyes  were  too  bold  ;  her  mouth  was  too 

401  2  D 


The  Shadow 

firm  ;  the  arrogance  and  self-assertion  of  her  will  were 
too  harshly  apparent.  Christopher  ftlt  that  here  was 
a  woman  who  might  have  served  Michael  Angelo  for  a 
Madonna,  but  now  was  only  fit  to  stand  as  some 
Madame  of  the  Terror  going  tearless  to  the  guillotine. 

They  spoke  together  for  a  few  minutes — interrupted 
by  the  boy  who  came  to  the  window  with  money  and 
returned  with  change — and  then  Christopher  inquired 
if  he  might  engage  a  room  for  the  night.  Mrs.  Conder 
invited  him  in.  She  preceded  him,  walking  like  a 
man,  down  a  flagged  passage  to  a  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  The  sound  of  children's  voices  came  to 
Christopher  as  the  door  opened.  When  he  entered 
the  room  he  saw  Rose.  She  had  a  baby  in  her  arms, 
and  was  sitting  on  the  hearthrug  with  two  other  little 
children  sprawling  over  her  lap. 

Christopher  felt  a  thrill  of  joy.  She  looked  so 
beautiful,  so  gentle,  and  so  good. 

Mrs.  Conder  said,  "  Here's  someone  who  knows 
papa." 

Rose,  from  being  all  smiles,  became  instantly  grave. 
She  looked  up  at  Christopher  with  a  kind  of  fear  in 
her  eyes.  He  thought  that  she  recognised  him. 

Mrs.  Conder  explained  who  Christopher  was,  and 
concluded,  "  He  wants  a  room  for  the  night.  I  suppose 
No.  4  will  do?" 

There  was  a  noise  of  someone  rapping  at  the  bar  ; 
Louise  withdrew.  Rose  got  upon  her  feet,  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  and  said,  "  I  remember  your  name  quite 
well,  and  my  father's  letters  about  you.  Tell  me  about 
him.  Is  he  well  ? " 

"No,  Miss  Kindred,"  he  answered,  "your  father  is 
402 


The    Sisters 

not  well     He  is  ill.     I  have  come  here  to  tell  you  so. 
I  hope  you  will  come  back  with  me." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  exclaimed  hastily.  "  It  is  impossible. 
He  didn't  ask  for  me,  I  am  sure.  He  knows  I  couldn't 
come.  But — if  he  is  ill  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  It  is  very 
difficult." 

"Will  you  let  me  see  you  alone  for  a  little?  Can 
you  come  out  into  the  open  with  me,  where  we 
should  not  be  interrupted  ? " 

She  met  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  "  You  see  it  is  not 
only  myself  I  am  thinking  about.  There  is  my  sister. 
I  cannot  possibly  leave  her." 

Christopher  said,  "  Let  us  go  out  for  a  little  while 
and  talk." 

"  But  what  can  you  say  that  would  alter  things  ?  I 
don't  think  it  is  any  good.  Don't  think  that  I  forget 
my  duty  to  my  father.  I  remember  him  every  minute 
of  the  day.  I  want  to  go  to  him  now.  But  there  are 
reasons  which  make  it  impossible." 

Mrs.  Conder  returned.  Christopher  asked  whether 
Rose  could  not  go  out  for  a  walk  with  him.  Louise 
said,  "  Emma  can  look  after  the  children."  Then  she 
went  to  Rose  and  whispered  something  into  her  ear. 
Rose  replied  : 

"  No,  I  promise  I  won't." 

It  gave  Christopher  a  curious  feeling  to  be  walking 
in  a  Yorkshire  dale  with  this  girl  oi  whom  he  had 
thought  and  dreamed  a  thousand  times  since  that 
strange  meeting  at  the  students'  ball.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  yearning  towards  her.  He  had  saved  her 
once  from  horror  and  terror ;  he  wanted  to  save  her 
now  from  unhappiness  and  remorse. 

403  2  D  2 


The  Shadow 

The  atmosphere  of  the  inn  filled  his  mind  with  a 
poignant  sense  of  aversion.  The  man  at  the  door  with 
his  hard  and  cruel  face  was  dreadful  to  him.  The  sight 
of  Louise  filling  glasses  and  counting  change  made  him 
shudder.  It  was  frightful  to  think  of  this  woman,  this 
daughter  of  the  man  dying  in  Penraven  Parsonage,  as 
the  victim  of  the  bully  at  the  door,  as  the  slave  of  the 
drinking-bar.  But  it  was  worse,  infinitely  worse,  to 
think  of  Rose,  whose  face  was  not  hardened,  whose 
eyes  and  lips  expressed  no  bitterness,  who  was  still 
beautiful,  pure,  and  gracious — it  was  infinitely  worse 
to  think  of  her  as  one  of  the  family  in  this  awful  place. 

What  mystery  kept  her  there  he  did  not  know. 
Whatever  it  was,  he  summoned  all  the  forces  of  his 
will  to  rescue  her. 

As  they  walked  away  from  the  house  he  spoke  about 
the  children  with  whom  he  had  found  her  playing. 
She  said  that  she  was  very  fond  of  them,  and  that 
they  constituted  three  reasons  for  her  remaining  at 
Blakeney.  "  My  sister,"  she  said,  "  has  no  time  to 
look  after  them  herself,  and  the  maid  is  only  a  rough 
girl,  who  is  busy  enough  too,  even  if  she  were  the  sort 
of  person  one  would  like  to  leave  with  children." 

"  An  inn  cannot  be  a  good  place  for  them  to  regard 
as  their  home." 

"  They  have  no  other." 

"  Forgive  me,  it  is  not  a  fitting  place  for  you." 

"  It  is  my  sister's  home." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  is  happy." 

"  That  is  one  of  my  reasons  for  remaining  with  her." 

"  I  see.     But  duties  clash.     There  is  your  duty  to 

your  father,  your  duty  to  your  sister " 

404 


The   Sisters 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  what  makes  it  so  hard. " 

"  And  your  duty  to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  am  happy  as  I  am.  I  am  very  fond  of  the 
children,  and  I  can  help  my  sister." 

"  If  I  were  your  sister,  I  should  leave  that  place." 

"  How  can  she  ? — she  is  married.     It  is  her  home." 

"  She  is  terribly  unhappy." 

"  What  makes  you  say  that  ? " 

"  Her  husband  is  a  brute." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  She  should  say,  '  I  will  not  live  here  ;  for  the  sake 
of  my  children  I  will  go  away ;  this  place  is  bad  and 
evil  and  degrading,  I  must  save  my  children  from  its 
pollution.' " 

"A  woman  who  is  married  cannot  say  that.  She 
must  follow  her  husband." 

"  She  can  get  him  to  change." 

"  At  any  rate,  to  revolt  is  only  possible  for  those 
who  have  means." 

"  She  has  a  father." 

"  Tell  me  about  my  father,"  she  said  ;  "  I  want  to 
hear  everything." 

They  were  following  a  path  through  a  wood  on  the 
side  of  a  hill,  which  was  filled  with  primroses,  blue- 
bells, wind-flowers,  and  wild  violets.  The  air  was 
redolent  of  dead  leaves.  In  the  distance  sounded 
the  continuous  thunder  of  the  Force,  down  below 
them  the  river  sang  its  way  through  moss-grown 
boulders,  and  above  their  heads,  in  the  dim  light  of 
interlacing  boughs,  sounded  the  sweet  jargoning  of 
birds. 

Christopher,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his 
405 


The  Shadow 

head  slightly  bent,  walked  beside  the  girl  whom  he 
had  rescued  from  the  students'  ball  on  the  night  of  his 
own  ruin.  He  was  conscious  at  every  moment  of  a 
deepening  affinity.  He  was  impelled  towards  her  by 
an  overmastering  impulse  of  protection.  Every  word 
he  said  to  her  had  the  tone  of  confidence  only  created 
by  long  and  closest  intimacy. 

He  told  her  very  faithfully  the  condition  of  her 
father.  He  looked  towards  her  once  in  the  midst  of 
his  words,  and  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
He  went  on  with  his  words,  which  were  not  smoothed 
for  her  sake.  "  You  must  come  back  with  me  to 
Penraven,"  he  concluded  firmly.  "  Nothing  on  earth 
must  prevent  you." 

He  stopped  as  he  said  this,  and  looked  towards  her. 
She  stopped  too,  keeping  her  head  turned  from  him. 
"  I  would  come  back,  I  promise  you,  if  it  were  not  for 
my  sister,"  she  said.  His  description  of  the  poor  lonely 
old  man  dying  in  the  parsonage,  who  kept  her  picture 
in  a  drawer,  had  her  room  always  ready  for  her,  and 
though  he  never  gave  expression  to  the  longing,  looked 
wistfully  every  day  for  the  return  of  his  child,  had 
melted  her  to  tears.  She  stood  with  her  head  turned 
away,  her  handkerchief  at  her  mouth. 

"  Your  sister  must  not  keep  you  from  your  father." 
"  You  have  seen  how  it  is  with  her  ? " 
"  My  heart,  I  assure  you,  aches  for  her." 
"  You  have  spoken   frankly  to   me.      I  will   trust 
you.     Just  before  I  came  away,  my  sister  whispered 
to  me.      You  saw  her.      She  said,  '  Promise  not  to 
leave  me  ? '     I    promised.     I  cannot  leave  her     She 
is  afraid." 

406 


The    Sisters 

Christopher  said,  "Your  father  has  called  me  his 
son.  I  will  play  the  brother  to  your  sister.  There  is 
one  man  who  may  come  between  husband  and  wife,  it 
is  the  brother  of  the  wife.  I  will  save  her." 

"  Oh,  but  nothing  can  be  done." 

"  In  the  meantime,  however,  you  must  decide  this 
matter  for  yourself.  I  want  to  tell  you  something. 
Miss  Kindred,  I  speak  from  the  bitterest  experience 
that  a  man's  heart  can  endure  without  breaking,  when 
I  tell  you  that  if  you  refuse  to  come  to  your  father 
now  you  prepare  for  yourself  a  life  of  reproach  and 
remorse  which  will  last  to  the  hour  of  your  death. 
Don't  do  that.  Don't  ruin  the  rest  of  your  life. 
Whatever  has  gone  before,  seize  the  present  and  make 
it  the  herald  of  a  serene  future.  I  implore  you  to  say 
to  me  now,  '  I  will  come  back.'  " 

She  turned  at  last  and  faced  him.  Her  grave  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears,  her  lips  had  all  the  moving 
pathos  of  grief.  With  the  pain  and  suffering  in  her 
face  she  turned  to  him.  "  If  it  were  only  myself  I 
would  come  back.  I  would  face  what  I  once  fled 
from.  I  promise  you  I  would.  But  when  I  was  in 
sorrow  my  sister  took  me  in.  She  was  kind  to  me. 
She  saved  me  from  a  wild  despair ;  I  cannot  leave 
her." 

"  If  I  persuade  her  to  return  to  your  father,  you  will 
come  ? " 

"  You  will  not  be  able  to  do  that." 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  She  has  a  courage  which  keeps  her  at  the  point 
of  suffering.  I  suppose  you  know  her  story.  She 
made  a  marriage  which  was  not  wise.  She  has 

407 


suffered  terribly.  But  until  this  very  morning,  when 
she  whispered  in  my  ear,  '  Promise  not  to  leave  me,' 
never  once,  not  even  to  me,  has  she  uttered  a  single 
word  of  complaint.  She  is  one  of  those  strong,  proud 
natures,  which  having  taken  a  course,  never  turn  back, 
but  continue  to  the  end.  I  have  seen  her  suffer  in  a 
way  that  has  pierced  my  heart,  but  I  have  never  seen 
her  shed  a  tear,  never  heard  her  utter  a  word  of  re- 
proach. There  is  something  grand  and  rock-like  in 
her  character,  and  yet  I  believe  her  heart  is  never 
empty  of  tears.  I  love  my  sister.  I  have  such  a  pity 
for  her  that  I  cannot  utter  it.  Nothing,  nothing  will 
ever  make  me  leave  her." 

They  returned  to  the  inn. 

Louise  avoided  Christopner.  Conder  was  polite 
to  him,  and  treated  his  wife  in  his  presence  with 
respect.  He  called  Christopher  "  Sir,"  and  spoke 
about  Graftons  of  Glevering,  who  had  hunted  with 
Lord  Penraven's  hounds.  Christopher  measured 
out  to  this  man  a  coldness  of  manner  and  a  dis- 
approbation of  bearing  which  kept  the  publican  at 
arm's  length. 

On  the  following  morning  he  rose  early  and  went 
into  the  yard  where  Louise  was  feeding  the  fowls 
and  pigeons.  He  said  to  her,  "  I  want  to  speak  to 
you  alone." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  which  was 
almost  disdainful,  and  said  in  her  bold,  loud  voice,  "  I 
have  got  plenty  to  do  ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  come  back  to  Penraven." 

"  And  leave  my  children  ? " 

"  No,  bring  them  too." 

408 


The    Sisters 

"  What  about  the  business  ?  " — she  drove  certain  of 
the  hens  away,  and  called  others  to  the  food  scattered 
at  her  feet.  "  I've  got  my  living  to  get,"  she  con- 
tinued ;  "  I  can't  be  idle  and  do  as  I  like." 

"  Mrs.  Conder,"  he  said  gravely,  "  your  father  is 
dying." 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  ;  one  needn't  talk  to  feel  sorry  ; 
I  am  fond  of  the  old  man,  though  he  was  never 
much  of  a  father  to  me  " — she  scattered  her  last  hand- 
ful of  corn  and  moved  away — "but  I  can't  go  to 
him,  even  if  I  could  do  any  good." 

Christopher  followed  her.  "  Give  me  one  moment," 
he  said. 

"  What  is  it  ? "     She  turned  and  faced  him. 

"  Your  father  will  not  die  happy  unless  his  children 
are  with  him." 

"  His  children  !  Well,  I  have  children  of  my  own. 
I  tell  you,  I  can't  go.  I  do  pretty  nearly  every- 
thing here.  He  wouldn't  ask  for  me  if  he  understood. 
You're  going  back,  you  can  tell  him." 

"  Tell  him  what  ?  That  your  heart  is  breaking, 
that  your  children  are  growing  up  in  a  beer-house, 
that  your  future  and  their  future  is  without  one  ray 
of  hope  ? " 

Her  eyes  flashed  and  her  face  reddened.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying."  She  moved  away  again. 

"And  you  might  save  your  children.  You  are 
their  mother.  You  might  save  them  ;  it  is  in  your 
power.  My  presence  here  is  your  security ;  the 
reason  of  my  presence  here  is  your  opportunity.  Say 
that  you  will  come  back  with  me.  Bring  your  children, 

409 


The  Shadow 

and  with  your  sister  return  to  Penraven  to  see 
your  father  before  he  dies." 

She  turned  her  head  for  a  moment  as  she  walked 
away  from  him,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  scowling 
displeasure.  "  I  think  you  must  be  mad,"  she  said, 
and  the  next  moment  she  was  calling  to  the  maid  in 
the  kitchen. 

Christopher  spent  another  day  in  this  inn,  which 
was  full  of  the  sense  of  tragedy.  The  two  sisters 
endeavoured  to  avoid  him.  He  saw  neither  of  them 
alone.  Rose  always  had  the  children  with  her. 
Louise  was  either  in  the  bar  or  in  the  kitchen  when 
he  sought  her. 

Christopher  was  puzzled  how  to  act.  He  thought 
at  one  time  of  appealing  to  the  husband,  even  of 
asking  that  detestable  man's  permission  for  the  wife's 
departure.  Such  a  course  was  clearly  impossible. 
The  more  he  succeeded  in  influencing  the  husband 
the  less  would  be  his  power  with  the  wife.  He 
realised  that  the  tragedy  of  Louise  was  the  tragedy 
of  pride. 

He  spoke  seriously  and  solemnly  to  Rose  whenever 
he  got  an  opportunity.  She  would  sit  with  the  two 
elder  children  playing  at  her  feet,  the  baby  in  her 
lap,  and  amid  these  distractions  deal  with  his  searching 
questions.  She  was  most  silent  when  he  pressed 
upon  her  the  terrible  influences  breathing  upon  the 
souls  of  the  children  from  the  atmosphere  of  the 
inn.  He  said  to  her  once  : 

"  It  is  dreadful  that  you  should  be  in  this  place, 
surrounded  by  all  that  is  base  and  degrading,  removed 
altogether  from  what  is  beautiful  and  refining  ;  but, 

410 


The   Sisters 

for  young  children — children  as  powerless  to  protect 
themselves  from  the  viewless  influence  of  evil  sur- 
roundings as  to  remove  themselves  to  other  and  better 
surroundings — it  is  horrible,  it  is  appalling." 

She  made  no  direct  answer,  but  spoke  of  a  child's 
innocence  as  its  best  protection  against  things  which 
appeared  disagreeable  and  base  to  maturer  minds. 

Christopher  did  not  know  that  George  Whitefield 
had  lived  the  most  impressionable  years  of  his 
childhood  in  an  inn,  had  served,  as  a  little  boy,  the 
lowest  of  drinkers  in  the  lowest  of  taverns,  and  had 
been  conscious  throughout  of  an  invisible  Power 
opening  his  spirit  eyes  to  the  beauty  of  holiness. 
Christopher's  antipathy  to  the  Hound  Inn  at  Blakeney 
was  not  religious,  it  was  intellectual.  His  fine  and 
sensitive  nature  recoiled  from  the  brutality  of  the 
place ;  he  shrank  from  its  coarseness,  its  ugliness, 
its  degraded  animalism.  His  sympathy  with  the 
two  sisters  was  for  the  intellectual  and  moral  side  of 
their  natures,  not  at  all  for  their  souls.  He  thought 
of  the  children  growing  up  without  any  sense  of 
loveliness,  without  any  passion  for  pure  beauty  and 
the  joy  breathing  from  the  soul  of  Nature. 

One  morning  he  came  downstairs  to  find  the  inn 
already  crowded  with  people  of  the  lowest  kind.  The 
yard  was  filled  with  vehicles.  There  was  an  unusual 
stir  in  the  streets.  He  learned  from  the  servant, 
who  brought  him  breakfast  in  a  room  crowded 
with  men,  that  it  was  the  first  day  of  a  steeple-chase 
meeting. 

He  went  out  into  the  street.  Special  trains  were 
disgorging  a  multitude  of  people,  upon  whose  faces 

411 


The  Shadow 

was  stamped  as  with  a  brand  every  sign  of  brutality. 
There  were  two  or  three  drags  drawn  up  in  the 
station  yard  among  dusty  carriages  and  carts.  A 
continual  stream  of  people  poured  from  the  railway 
station  into  the  inn. 

Christopher  went  out  into  the  country  and  walked 
in  the  wood  where  he  made  his  appeal  to  Rose.  He 
reached  the  Force,  and  sat  down  upon  a  great  boulder 
in  mid-stream  which  rose  high  out  of  the  water  a  few 
yards  before  it  plunged  downward  out  of  sight  in  the 
trees.  His  face  and  hands  became  wet  in  a  fine  spray 
blown  backward  from  the  Force.  The  moving  water, 
gliding  with  little  noise  between  its  green  and 
wooded  banks,  and  approaching  with  a  dreamful 
calm  the  precipitous  thunder  of  its  inevitable  fall, 
reflected  the  blue  sky,  the  white  clouds,  and  the 
glancing  flight  of  birds.  It  curved  round  the  rocks 
in  its  course  with  as  gentle  a  motion  as  it  touched 
the  hanging  branches  of  trees  dipping  into  its  un- 
spotted current.  The  sunlight  slept  upon  this 
gracious  tide. 

The  comparison  between  this  scene  and  that  of 
the  inn  worked  in  Christopher's  mind  as  he  lay  upon 
the  warm  stone  and  felt  the  spray  dusting  his  face. 
Louise  did  not  seem  to  him  a  pathetic  or  a  tragic 
figure  ;  he  thought  of  her  with  impatience  and  dis- 
pleasure. She  should  grapple  with  her  fate ;  she 
should  summon  the  forces  of  her  will ;  she  should 
refuse  any  longer  to  suffer  the  indignity  and  horror  of 
her  unholy  alliance.  His  resentment  against  the  one 
sister  was  dictated  by  an  ardent  interest  in  the  other. 
Rose  was  a  pure  and  beautiful  figure  in  the  sordid 

412 


The  Sisters 

atmosphere  of  that  inn.  Her  devotion  to  the  children 
of  her  sister,  her  quiet  protection  of  that  sister  against 
the  cruelties  of  the  husband,  her  unassuming  and 
scarce  noticeable  endeavours  to  mitigate  the  miseries 
of  her  poor  sister's  life — these  things  struck  Chris- 
topher sharply  and  made  him  wonder  what  possible 
sin  could  have  driven  so  pure  and  gentle  a  nature 
from  her  home.  The  problem  of  this  tragedy  lay 
with  Rose ;  it  lay  where  the  affections  of  his  heart 
were  moving  as  slowly,  as  steadily,  as  continuously 
as  the  river  was  moving  to  the  cataract. 

When  he  turned  to  go  back  to  the  inn,  breathing 
the  delightsome  atmosphere  of  the  wood  and  thinking 
what  lay  before  him  in  the  tavern,  he  determined  that 
this  should  be  his  last  day  in  Blakeney.  He  would 
go  back  to  Penraven.  He  would  shake  off  the  memory 
of  this  miserable  and  degraded  tragedy.  In  the  midst 
of  the  mountains  and  in  the  loving  company  of  the 
old  minister,  he  would  devote  himself  to  his  art,  and  in 
his  art  seek  to  find  occasional  oblivion  of  his  own 
unalterable  doom.  These  sisters  must  live  out  their 
life — their  strange  life  whose  tragedy  was  so  unlike 
his  own  ;  the  father  would  die  and  go  to  his  long 
home,  and  they  would  still  be  carrying  on  the  traffic 
of  the  Hound  Inn. 

He  found  the  sweep  in  front  of  the  house  empty. 
There  were  only  a  few  loiterers  in  the  streets.  The 
railway  station  was  quiet.  He  entered  the  inn.  At 
the  end  of  the  flagged  passage  he  caught  a  moment's 
sight  of  Louise  busy  in  the  kitchen.  She  was  red- 
eyed. 

He  went  to  the  sitting-room  where  Rose  amused 

413 


the  children,  meaning  to  make  one  last  appeal.  She 
said,  as  he  entered  the  room,  "  I  have  been  waiting 
for  you.  My  sister  wants  me  to  go  and  see  my 
father,  and  to  take  the  children  with  me.  We  can 
start  whenever  you  are  ready." 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  looking  at  her.     "  We  will 
start  now." 


4M 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
CHRISTOPHER  SPEAKS 

MR.  KINDRED  was  in  his  study,  seated  before  a 
fire,  with  a  shawl  over  his  shoulders,  a  rug  over 
his  knees,  his  eyes  closed  in  a  meditation  which 
carried  him  far  away  from  the  earth,  when  Christopher 
entered   the   garden   and    made  his   way   across  the 
lawn   to  the   front  door.     The   closed   carriage,  with 
Rose   and  the  children  inside,  moved  at  a  snail's  pace 
over  the  shingle  of  the  drive. 

Christopher  opened  the  door  of  the  study  very 
gently,  and  entered  without  making  any  sound.  The 
Rector,  whose  back  was  turned  to  him,  asked,  "  Is  that 
my  son  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

Christopher  said  as  he  came  to  the  side  of  the  chair, 
"  And  your  son  brings  back  your  daughter." 

The  old  man  started  and  looked  up  with  questioning 
eyes.  He  was  holding  one  of  Christopher's  hands 
between  both  of  his. 

"  Miss  Kindred  has  come  back,"  said  Christopher. 
Then  he  added,  "  She  is  longing  to  see  you." 

The  old  man  seemed  struck  dumb.  A  faint  colour 
suffused  the  pallor  of  his  face.  His  eyes  were  startled. 
He  said,  in  a  low  and  wondering  voice,  "  My  little 
Rose!  Where?  Where  is  she,  dear  Christopher?" 

415 


The  Shadow 

He  sat  forward  and  endeavoured  to  raise  himself  by 
the  arms  of  his  chair.  The  sound  of  the  carriage 
wheels  entered  the  room. 

Christopher  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "  She  will 
come  to  you  here.  Rest  where  you  are,  sir."  He 
stooped  down  and  made  up  the  fire.  "  She  has 
brought  your  grandchildren  to  see  you,"  he  said, 
getting  up  from  the  hearth. 

"  My  grandchildren  ! " — the  pale  face  lighted  with 
joy.  "  God  is  very  good  to  me." 

Christopher  looked  down  at  the  old  man,  so  frail 
and  faded  and  worn,  and  a  great  tenderness  seized  his 
heart  He  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"  My  son,  my  dear  son ! "  said  the  clergyman, 
pressing  his  arms. 

When  Christopher  went  to  fetch  Rose  his  face  was 
soft  and  beautiful,  as  though  the  embrace  of  the 
minister  had  baptised  him  into  the  peace  of  God. 

He  helped  Rose  from  the  carriage,  where  she  had 
sat  waiting  for  him  at  the  door,  as  he  had  once  helped 
her  into  a  carriage  at  the  door  of  a  music-hall. 
"  Your  father  is  trembling  to  embrace  you,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

She  was  very  white  and  agitated.  The  sight  of  the 
parsonage  and  the  garden  had  awakened  thoughts 
which  stirred  her  being  to  its  depth.  "  I  will  have 
the  children  with  me,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook. 

Christopher  went  with  her  to  the  door  of  the  study. 
As  he  opened  the  door  he  caught  sight  of  the  father 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  his  face  shining 
softly,  his  arms  extending,  his  lips  moving  with 
welcome.  The  si^ht  of  this  pale  and  bowed  old  man, 

416 


Christopher    Speaks 

risen  in  tottering  weakness  to  receive  his  child,  brought 
a  blinding  moisture  to  the  eyes  of  God's  exile.  He 
turned  away  from  it. 

The  return  of  Rose  to  the  rectory  meant  the  ex- 
pulsion of  Christopher.  When  he  had  recovered  his 
composure  he  went  to  consult  with  the  servant  as  to 
some  lodging  in  the  village. 

When  he  saw  Rose  again  he  was  setting  out.  "  You 
are  not  going  ? "  she  asked  ;  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 
She  came  with  him  into  the  garden.  "  He  is  so  happy 
with  the  children,"  she  said,  in  a  soft  voice.  "  It  is 
beautiful  to  see  his  face  bent  over  them,  and  to  watch 
him  turning  his  ear  to  catch  what  they  say." 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said.  "  They  will  give  him  new 
life." 

"  But,  tell  me — where  are  you  going  with  that  satchel  ? 
You  are  not  going  to  leave  us  ? " 

"  I  find,"  he  said,  "  that  every  house  in  this  village 
belongs  to  the  Comte  de  Lyons,  which  means  that 
there  is  no  lodging  for  me  this  side  of  Toom  Head." 

She  stopped  dead.  Her  face  was  blanched.  "  Why 
do  you  say  that  ?  " 

He  told  her  of  his  altercation  with  the  Count,  and 
of  his  experience  at  the  farmhouse.  Her  face,  he 
noticed,  cleared  as  he  spoke. 

"  There  is  one  house  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
valley  which  does  not  belong  to  him,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  a  farm  where  they  used  to  let  rooms  in  the  summer 
to  mountain-climbers  and  reading-parties  from  the 
universities.  Do  not  go  over  the  hills  till  you  have 
tried  there." 

He  asked  her  the  people's  name  and  was  about  to 
417  2  E 


The  Shadow 

set  out,  when  she  stopped  him.  "  I  haven't  said  to 
you  what  I  want  to  say.  I  want  to  thank  you,  now, 
in  the  first  moment  of  my  return,  for  bringing  me  back. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  did  not  return 
of  my  own  will  long  ago.  I  do  not  pretend  that  I 
have  ever  felt  towards  my  father  as  I  ought  to  have 
felt,  as  I  feel  now ;  I  was  too  young  then  to  love  him, 
too  full  of  my  own  self  to  understand  his  character  ; 
but  I  was  never  dead  to  his  affection.  Now  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  have  loved  him  and  understood  him  all 
my  life.  He  is  wonderfully  dear  to  me.  That  is  why 
I  am  grateful  to  you  for  bringing  me  back." 

"  There  is  nothing  more  bitter,"  he  answered,  "  than 
the  self-reproach  which  comes  after  death  has  rendered 
remorse  vain  and  profitless." 

With  these  words  he  left  her.  On  his  way  up  the 
valley  he  encountered  the  chaplain  of  the  Comte  de 
Lyons,  who  glanced  up  at  him  quickly  and  curiously, 
immediately  lowering  his  eyes  to  the  road  in  front  of 
his  feet,  and  passing  with  an  inscrutable  look  on  his 
face. 

Christopher  came  to  the  parsonage  on  the  following 
day  to  fetch  his  painting  materials.  He  saw  Rose  and 
her  father  as  he  walked  up  the  drive.  They  were 
standing  at  one  of  the  lower  windows,  watching,  with 
delighted  smiles  on  their  faces,  the  two  older  children 
playing  on  the  lawn.  The  laughter  of  the  children 
came  to  Christopher  as  a  familiar  thing.  It  was  the 
laughter  of  the  phantom  children  he  had  heard  on  his 
first  entrance  into  this  green  happiness. 

At  his  approach  the  children  did  not  run  towards 
him  with  shouts  of  greeting  ;  their  laughter  ceased,  and 

418 


Christopher    Speaks 

they  stopped,  pausing  over  their  play,  with  all  the 
joy  suddenly  frozen  on  their  lips.  Mr.  Kindred  and 
Rose  at  the  window  wondered  why  he  did  not  turn 
aside  to  speak  to  the  children.  He  came  forward, 
conscious  that  the  eyes  at  the  window  regarded  him, 
conscious  that  the  children  waited  to  renew  their  game 
till  he  had  passed.  He  was  strangely  aware  of  separa- 
tion from  this  little  group  of  humanity. 

The  clergyman,  whose  face  shone  with  new  happi- 
ness, begged  him  to  use  the  parsonage  as  his  workshop, 
saying  that  he  really  could  not  spare  his  son,  his 
curate,  his  sacristan,  his  private  secretary,  his  gardener. 
TOB  this  appeal  Rose  added  her  own,  "  My  father  will 
regret  my  coming  if  it  means  your  going." 

Christopher  wavered.  There  was  a  new  happiness 
in  the  parsonage.  The  old  abiding  atmosphere  of 
resigned  sorrow  had  lifted,  had  risen  like  a  mist  into 
the  blue  of  a  clear  sky.  This  house,  which  he  had 
got  to  love,  was  changed.  The  air  rang,  not  with 
inaudible  laughter  of  phantom  children,  but  with  real 
laughter  of  real  children.  The  face  of  his  friend  glowed 
with  a  parent's  love.  The  old,  desolate,  sweet-souled 
man  was  humanly  happy.  Christopher  felt  himself 
isolated,  felt  himself  an  interloper.  This  hermitage 
had  become  suddenly  a  human  home.  What  place 
and  lot  had  he  in  the  happy  dwellings  of  men  ? — in 
the  security  and  peace  of  domestic  cheerfulness  ? 

But  to  go  was  very  difficult. 

He  did  not  look  at  Rose,  but  when  he  wavered  in 
his  answer  to  their  invitation,  he  was  conscious  of  her 
in  every  pulse  of  his  being. 

The  clergyman  took  his  arm. 

419  2  E  2 


The  Shadow 

"  I  have  named  you  my  son.  I  have  adopted  you. 
What !  Will  you  leave  your  father  to  become  a 
prodigal  ?  For  shame,  Christopher,  thou  child  of  light. 
Can  the  garden  get  on  without  you,  or  have  I  wages 
for  a  hireling  ?  Can  my  letters  get  answered  without 
you,  or  could  I  support  a  private  secretary  ?  Can  the 
bell  ring  in  the  belfry  without  you,  or  shall  I  turn  its 
music  into  mourning  by  letting  someone  pull  the  rope 
for  money  ?  My  son,  listen  to  your  father's  voice.  He 
bids  you  stay." 

Christopher  made  his  choice.  He  met  the  appealing 
wistful  eyes  of  the  old  minister,  which  were  raised  to 
his  face,  and  said,  with  something  that  was  almost  a 
smile  upon  his  lips,  "  I  cannot  refuse  such  an  invitation." 
Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  towards  Rose.  She 
was  watching  him,  and  in  her  face  he  saw  the  passing 
of  an  anxiety. 

So  Christopher  came  every  morning  down  the  valley, 
rang  the  bell  for  morning  prayer  in  the  little  church, 
helped  the  clergyman  in  his  correspondence,  and  then 
leaving  father  and  daughter  to  work  in  the  garden  or 
to  amuse  themselves  with  the  children,  retired  to  the 
open  window  of  his  old  room — now  a  studio  and 
nothing  else — and  there  worked  at  his  painting,  com- 
panioned by  the  two  texts — "  I  the  Lord  am  thy 
Saviour  and  thy  Redeemer,"  and  "  Christ  shall  give 
thee  light."  He  sometimes  worked  till  the  family 
had  finished  the  midday  meal,  and  in  that  case  he 
would  dine  alone,  or  Rose  would  bring  him  something 
to  his  room.  He  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  in  the 
garden,  and  after  tea  returned  to  the  solitude  of  his 
lodging  in  the  farmhouse  at  the  end  of  the  valley. 

420 


Christopher    Speaks 

He  was  still  condemned  to  earn  his  daily  bread  by 
painting  Madonnas.  The  art-dealers  in  London  had 
begun  to  be  aware  of  his  success  in  Paris.  When,  in 
answer  to  their  applications,  he  sent  other  pictures, 
they  replied  that  they  wanted  religious  subjects, 
particularly  pictures  of  the  Madonna.  His  financial 
circumstances  became  easier  every  month.  Engravings 
and  photogravures  of  the  first  Madonna — the  Madonna 
that  was  his  own  mother  and  his  own  emotional  longings 
after  a  state  of  greater  purity — were  gradually  spreading 
into  every  country.  He  had  means  beyond  his  wants, 
but  he  hated  his  work,  which  seemed  to  him  an  ex- 
pression, a  confession  of  his  spiritual  hypocrisy. 

The  two  Madonnas  which  he  had  painted  since  his 
mother's  death  had  not  been  praised  by  the  best 
judges.  The  dealers  in  Paris  had  expressed  the  hope 
that  he  would  endeavour  to  utter  the  tenderness  that 
was  in  the  first  picture  and  to  abandon  the  expression 
of  settled  sorrow  and  almost  despairful  resignation 
which  they  observed  in  its  successors. 

Christopher's  master  wrote  to  him  in  the  same  strain, 
but  with  the  loving  persuasion  of  a  friend  and  with 
the  convincing  force  of  a  great  painter.  Christopher 
was  as  unable  to  obey  his  master  out  of  love  as  his 
dealers  out  of  covetousness.  The  first  picture 
apparently  had  exhausted  his  spiritual  longings ; 
his  mother's  death  apparently  had  quenched  his 
desire  for  joy.  The  darkness  of  his  soul  fell  like  a 
shadow  on  every  canvas  that  he  painted. 

One  day,  very  soon  after  her  return  to  the  parsonage, 
Rose  said  to  him,  "My  father  tells  me  that  we 
met  in  Paris.  Is  it  so  ?  Do  you  remember  it  ? "  She 

421 


The  Shadow 

seemed  to  ask  the  question  unwillingly,  and  to  be 
apprehensive  about  his  answer. 

He  considered  before  he  replied.  "  When  your 
father  showed  me  your  photograph,"  he  said,  "  I 
thought  I  recognised  you.  I  think  still  that  I  did 
see  you  in  Paris.  But — it  was  only  for  a  moment, 
and  I  was  not  presented  to  you." 

"  Where  was  it  ?  " 

He  set  his  teeth.  "  I  really  forget,"  he  said,  after 
a  moment,  and  breathed  more  freely  when  the  untruth 
was  uttered.  He  felt  afterwards  that  this  lie  banished 
him  further  from  the  society  of  the  good  and  virtuous. 
It  deepened  in  him  the  sense  that  he  was  a  man 
wearing  a  mask,  which,  once  removed,  would  expose 
him  to  the  horror  of  the  pure  and  the  execration  of 
the  just. 

He  was  a  man  "  boding  evil  yet  still  hoping  good." 
Truly  of  him  might  the  terrible  words  be  said, 

"  Idle  Hope 

And  dire  Remembrance  interlope 
To  vex  the  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind  : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  the  spectre  stalks  behind." 

The  bubble  ?  What  filmy  shape,  reflecting  iridescent 
tints  of  heaven's  sky  and  catching  from  the  earth, 
above  whose  breast  it  floated  light  and  high,  glancings 
of  sunny  greenery — skimmed  like  fairy  ship  the  soft 
blue  air,  gliding  forward  light  as  summer's  breath, 
and  fragile  as  the  gossamer  ?  It  was  the  hope  of  a 
cleansed  spirit — the  hope  of  relief  from  pressing 
bitterness — the  hope  of  an  end  to  exile.  And  with 
that  dim  and  not  yet  utterable  hope  there  moved 
and  stirred  in  the  travail  of  his  heart  an  impulse  of  his 

422 


Christopher    Speaks 

whole  being  towards  the  girl  who  had  suffered  and 
was  still  sweet.  This  bubble,  floating  before  his 
eyes,  while  behind  him  stalked  the  spectre,  was  known 
by  him  to  be  a  bubble  that  would  break  and  vanish 
and  be  as  if  it  had  never  been  if  he  pressed  so  fast 
towards  it  as  even  to  breathe  upon  it  with  his  lips. 

He  no  more  dared  fling  himself  down  and  say, 
"  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner,"  than  he  dared  show 
by  word  or  look  to  the  girl  his  heart  craved  for,  the 
love  that  was  beginning  to  consume  his  life. 

The  bubble  was  so  lovely — to  see  it  ravished  his 
senses  ;  so  lovely,  so  perfect,  so  wonderful,  so  unearthly, 
and  so  impossible,  that  he  only  dared  to  open  his 
eyes  at  rare  moments  and  look  upon  it  but  for  a 
frightened  glance.  Always  at  such  moments  he 
was  most  conscious  of  the  spectre  behind  him.  Dire 
Remembrance  came  ever  swiftly  beside  his  idle 
Hope  to  vex  these  feverish  dreams  of  his  visionary 
mind.  Well,  dreams  may  be  sweet  even  in  the  con- 
demned cell.  Christopher  said,  "  It  is  a  dream," 
and  he  circumscribed  his  ambition  to  the  hope  that 
he  might  always  have  this  power  to  dream. 

It  gave  him  pleasure  and  it  provoked  his  curiosity 
to  watch  the  daily  increasing  influence  on  Rose's 
character  of  contact  with  her  father.  They  were 
always  together.  When  the  weather  was  fine  he  would 
look  up  from  his  work  to  see  them  walking  in  the 
garden.  When  he  entered  the  study  it  was  to  find 
that  he  had  interrupted  them  in  conversation  of  an 
intimate  character.  She  became  visibly  sweeter, 
more  frank  in  her  tender  solicitude  of  her  father, 
nobler  and  greater  in  the  expression  of  her  face.  He 

423 


The  Shadow 

reflected  upon  this  great  and  visible  change  in  her 
bearing.  Then,  early  one  Sunday  morning  as  he 
rang  the  bell  for  Holy  Communion,  Rose  entered  the 
church  for  the  first  time  since  her  return. 

When  Christopher  saw  her  alone  that  morning 
he  said  to  her,  "  I  should  like  you  to  do  me  a  great 
favour." 

"  I  shall  do  it  gladly,  whatever  it  is,"  she  said,  with 
the  candour  of  a  pure  nature  sure  of  her  friend. 

"It  is  a  wish  I  have  had  ever  since  I  first  saw  your 
photograph.  I  want  to  paint  your  portrait." 

She  seemed  for  a  moment  conscious  of  his  ad- 
miration. Only  for  a  moment.  With  her  usual 
composure,  with  the  gravity  and  tender  dignity  which 
had  come  to  her  since  her  return,  she  'acquiesced  in 
his  suggestion,  meeting  his  eyes  without  self- 
consciousness. 

When  he  was  making  his  first  study  for  this  picture, 
she  said  to  him,  "  I  had  a  letter  two  or  three  days  ago 
from  my  sister.  I  think  you  will  like  to  know  that 
she  says  she  is  happier." 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad." 

"You  did  not  misjudge  her,  I  am  sure.  She  is 
very  different  from  her  outward  manner." 

"  She  bears  her  suffering  bravely.  Whether  she 
should  bear  it  at  all  is  another  matter.  But  I  am 
glad  she  is  happier.  It  means  that  you  will  remain 
with  your  father,  and  not  be  fretted  by  wondering 
how  it  fares  with  your  sister.  Does  she  miss  her 
children?" 

"  It  is  her  own  wish  that  they  should  be  away  from 
that  place." 

424 


Christopher    Speaks 

On  the  second  day  he  said    to  her,  "Would  you 
mind  if  I  painted  you  as  the  Madonna  ?  " 

She  started  and  said.     "  Oh,  please  no.     I    would 
rather  not." 

He  did  not  raise  his  eyes.  "  Why  not  ?"  he  asked. 
"  I  can  hardly  tell  you.  It  is  something  that  hap- 
pened long  ago.  I  once  had  a  great  shock  in  which 
the  idea  of  the  Madonna  played  a  part.  I  cannot 
tell  you  exactly  what  it  was.  I  saw  suddenly  with 
my  living  eyes  a  blasphemy — a  blasphemy  which 
rises  up  quite  fresh  and  horrible  to  my  eyes  every 
time  I  see  a  picture  of  the  Madonna,  every  time 
I  hear  the  Virgin's  name  in  church,  and  which  will 
haunt  me  to  my  dying  day." 

Christopher's  face  was  like  death. 
"  That  is  one  of  the  most  terrible  things  about  sin," 
she  said  slowly,  "  its  consequences  go  on.  The  man 
who  once  filled  my  soul  with  horror  has  perhaps 
forgotten  the  incident ;  he  certainly  does  not  realise 
that  his  act  lives  eternally  in  my  mind,  is  a  memory 
that  will  never  die." 

Christopher  said  nothing. 

"  But,"  she  added  presently,  "  it  is  only  a  senti- 
mental reason  I  set  up  against  your  idea.  I  ought 
to  be  superior  to  unreasoning  aversions.  Yes,  let 
your  picture  be  as  you  say." 

For  some  moments  he  was  silent.  Then  he  said  in 
a  low  voice,  still  working  at  the  picture  :  "  If  I  could 
paint  a  beautiful  Madonna  it  might  help  you  to 
forget.  You  are  haunted  by  a  devil  ;  I  should  like 
to  haunt  you  with  an  angel." 

A.fter  a  prolonged   pause,  she   said,  "Yes.     I  see 
425 


The  Shadow 

what  you  mean.  If  I  could  associate  the  Madonna 
in  my  mind  with  something  beautiful,  something 
quite  hauntingly  lovely,  I  should  lose  the  darker 
memory ;  this  would  outshine  it.  Well,  try.  Do. 
It  would  please  me.  I  have  no  desire  to  remember 
what  makes  me  shudder." 

"  Perhaps  my  picture  might  make  you  think  with 
less  wrath  of  the  man  who  offended  you." 

"  Oh,"  she  made  haste  to  explain,  "  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  him.  I  do  not  know  his  name  or  any- 
thing about  him." 

"  But  you  shudder  when  you  think  of  him." 

"  I  shall  always  do  that." 

"  His  sin  was  perhaps  an  act  of  folly." 

"It  was  atrocious." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  young.  A  boy  may  commit  a 
terrible  sin  in  the  wildness  of  his  youth,  and  be  ever 
afterwards  sorry  for  it.  Perhaps  it  adds  to  the  burden 
of  his  guilt  if  those  he  offended  continue  to  think 
of  him  with  horror." 

"  I  cannot  explain  to  you.  If  I  did,  you  would 
realise  why  my  memory  is  so  tenacious  of  its  horror. 
This  man,  too,  did  me  a  great  service.  For  some 
reason  I  think  he  is  the  man  of  all  men  I  most  want 
to  see.  I  want  to  thank  him.  And  yet,  think  what 
the  horror  of  his  act  must  have  been  when  I  tell  you 
that  if  I  saw  him  coming  towards  me,  this  man 
whom  I  desire  to  thank  so  very  earnestly,  I  should 
turn  and  fly  from  him,  unable  to  look  in  his  face." 

"  So  bad  as  that !     Then  my  picture  will  fail." 

"  I  want  your  picture  to  exorcise  from  my  mind 
the  association  of  the  Madonna's  name  with  this 

426 


Christopher    Speaks 

dreadful  incident  That  will  be  just  and  right.  The 
beautiful  ought  to  have  power  over  the  base.  As 
for  the  man — I  am  not  haunted  by" him,  but  by  his 
act.  He  is  outside  my  life.  Our  lives  will  never 
cross  again." 

"  Then  he  will  never  receive  your  thanks  for  that 
act  of  service." 

"  In  missing  my  thanks  he  escapes  my  horror." 

"  Oh,  perhaps  he  knows  it.  There  are  people  who 
think  that  all  strong  feelings  about  a  person  reach 
and  affect  him  in  some  occult  and  mysterious  fashion." 

"  Like  the  witches  with  their  pins  and  effigies  ? " 

"  This  is  why  we  are  instructed  that  it  is  necessary 
not  to  judge  others,  never  to  feel  anger,  and  always  to 
cultivate  kind  feelings.  It  is  said  that  kind  feelings 
about  a  person,  even  if  they  are  never  uttered,  help 
him." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  ? " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  my  belief  is  narrowed  to  a  smaller  point 
than  that.  I  was  speaking  of  theories." 

"  You  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins,  evidently." 

"  No  ;  certainly  not  in  that." 

"  But  you  have  been  speaking  from  that  point  of 
view,  surely  ?  " 

"  I  was  unconscious  of  it." 

"  There  are  some  sins  which  one  feels  can  never  be 
forgiven,  but " 

"  Such  as  this  blasphemy  you  speak  of,  for 
instance  ? " 

"  Oh,  one  knows  that  such  an  act  outraged  Heaven, 
but  it  would  be  dreadful  to  think  of  the  man  who 
committed  it  as  one  deliberately  continuing  along  a 

427 


The  Shadow 

path  of  horror.  Perhaps  he  repented,  or  will  repent. 
Where  there  is  penitence  there  is  forgiveness." 

"  Do  you  use  the  word  penitence  as  a  conventional 
term,  or  out  of  some  experience  of  its  meaning.  But 
I  ought  not  to  ask  that  question.  Forgive  me.  Only 
one  hears  the  word  repentance  used  so  glibly  I 
imagine  that  remorse  is  something  terrible." 

"  But  remorse  is  not  repentance." 

"  No  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  repentance  is  unless  it  is  the 
child  of  remorse." 

"  But  the  child  has  a  life  of  its  own." 

"  Until  this  minute  I  have  not  thought  about  the 
subject.  I  have  felt  in  a  dim,  subconscious  manner 
that  a  man  burdened  by  remorse  may  be  regarded  as 
a  penitent  in  so  far  that  his  remorse  would  prevent  him 
from  repeating  his  sin.  I  have  not  thought  that 
penitence  could  grow  into  anything  different  from 
remorse.  Isn't  remorse  an  undying  memory  ? " 

"  Repentance,"  she  said,  "  is  a  new  birth." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  term  I  do  not  understand." 

"  My  father  would  explain  it  to  you." 

"  You  think  that  by  some  miracle  in  the  will  of  a 
man  he  may  forget  everything  he  has  been,  every 
irremediable  disaster  he  has  brought  upon  himself  and 
others,  wipe  out,  in  fact,  the  whole  memory  of  his  past, 
which  is  his  personality,  and  begin  a  new  life  ? " 

"  You  asked  me  just  now  if  I  had  experienced 
penitence." 

"  I  should  not  have  done  so." 

"  I  experienced  long  ago  remorse  for  one  single 
428 


Christopher    Speaks 

incident  in  my  life  ;  it  did  not  carry  me  very  far.  It 
made  a  repetition  of  my  folly  impossible,  but  it  did 
not  create  in  me  a  new  spirit.  I  was  the  same  person, 
wounded  and  bruised.  But  quite  lately  I  have  made 
acquaintance  with  what  we  call  penitence.  It  grew 
out  of  my  remorse.  But  it  is  quite  different.  I  think 
one  might  say  that  remorse  is  for  a  single  act,  peni- 
tence is  for  a  condition  of  the  soul.  I  know  that 
remorse  hurt  and  tormented  me,  but  did  not  in  the 
least  change  me.  Penitence,  on  the  other  hand,  neither 
hurts  nor  torments,  but  heals  ;  and  it  alters  the  whole 
character.  It  really  is  a  new  birth.  It  seems  to  me 
that  it  is  like  waking  out  of  a  long  sleep." 

"In  which  remorse  was  a  nightmare." 

"  Yes." 

"  But  there  must  be  forms  of  remorse  from  which 
this  delightful  waking  to  a  new  dawn  must  be  eternally 
debarred." 

"  Oh,  none ! " 

"  Do  you  believe  that  ? " 

"  I  have  no  intellectual  gifts  to  explain  what  I 
mean,  but  I  have  the  sanction  of  intuition  to  persuade 
me  that  the  forgiveness  of  sins  is  a  great  fact.  Don't 
you  feel  that  ?  Don't  you  feel  that  the  power  and  the 
love  that  is  in  the  universe  assures  the  heart  of  mercy 
and  forgiveness  for  repentance  ?  " 

"  Suppose  a  man's  remorse  springs  from  an  act 
whose  consequences  cannot  be  mended  ?  " 

"  Cannot  be  mended  ?     Is  there  such  an  act  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so.  A  man  may  so  act  as  to 
destroy  what  he  most  loves.  He  may  awake  to  discover 
how  greatly  he  loved  when  it  is  too  late,  when  that 

429 


The  Shadow 

which  he  loved  is  beyond  the  reach  of  his  voice. 
For  instance,  if  the  prodigal  son  in  the  parable  had 
turned  homewards  to  find  the  father  his  sin  had 
wounded  dead  of  a  broken  heart  ? " 

"  That  would  be  dreadful.  Yes,  dreadful.  If  I  had 
not  come  when  you  called  me  back  home,  and  if  some 
day  I  had  returned  to  find  I  was  too  late " 

"  That  is  what  I  mean." 

"  But  I  hope  that  I  should  have  found  someone  to 
tell  me  that  my  father  was  still  alive,  and  that  because 
he  was  still  alive  he  was  still  longing  for  my  return. 
Remorse  would  then  lose  itself  in  repentance.  I  should 
still  say,  still  be  able  to  say,  '  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my 
father.'  Remorse  ends  at  the  grave ;  repentance 
passes  into  eternity." 

Christopher  did  not  realise  till  she  had  left  him,  till 
he  was  alone  by  himself,  that  for  the  first  time  in  the 
long  and  dreadful  period  of  his  remorse  he  had  opened 
his  lips  and  given  utterance  to  the  dark  and  shapeless 
thoughts  deep  buried  in  his  soul. 

He  was  at  first  struck  by  this  bewildering  change  in 
himself.  He  had  spoken. 

Afterwards  it  came  to  him  with  a  heating  wave  of 
self-consciousness  that  he  had  opened  the  barred  doors 
of  his  soul  because  of  the  woman  whose  face  he  was 
painting.  Sympathy  had  thawed  the  ice  about  his 
heart.  That  cold  and  frozen  seat  of  his  humanity  was 
melting  with  love. 

He  tried  to  remember  what  he  had  said  to  her.  He 
found  that  it  was  only  her  words  which  lived  in  his 
memory. 

Among  those  words  impressed  for  ever  on  the 
430 


Christopher    Speaks 

tablets  of  his  brain  was  the  Discedite  Maledicti  which 
she  had  unconsciously  pronounced  against  him. 

If  she  knew  him  for  what  he  was,  she  would  not  thank 
him  for  the  services  he  had  rendered  her  ;  she  would 
turn  and  flee  from  him  in  horror. 

And  yet  she  had  spoken  of  the  forgiveness  of  sins  ! 

With  a  feeling  almost  of  resentment  against  her,  he 
endeavoured  to  forget  this  conversation,  to  push  it  out 
of  his  mind,  and  set  himself  to  think  only  of  his  work 
and  to  continue  his  way  through  the  unlifting  darkness 
of  eternal  night. 

But  he  had  forgotten  the  picture. 

Every  touch  of  his  brush  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  his  new  Madonna,  and  as  great 
as  his  passion  to  make  this  picture  his  masterpiece 
became  the  longing  of  his  heart  to  possess  the  consola- 
tion of  the  woman's  sympathy  and  love. 

So,  while  Christopher  painted,  he  loved,  and  the  love 
grew  to  be  the  central  force  in  his  existence. 

Out  of  spiritual  darkness  the  grace  and  beauty  of 
the  woman  drew  him  a  little  further  every  day,  until 
at  last  they  made  him  human. 

It  was  out  of  his  humanity  that  his  soul  was  to  rise 
to  God. 


431 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 
A  SUDDEN  TEMPTATION 

AS   the  picture  neared  its  completion,  Christopherv 
who  was  a  great  critic  because  he  was  a  great 
painter,  knew  that   he   had  achieved  something 
definite  in  art.     He  realised  that  this  picture  meant 
fame  for  him,  fame  of  the  highest  and  most  enduring 
character. 

But  the  picture  belonged  to  Rose. 

"  Will  you  accept  it  ? "  he  said,  turning  to  her  one 
day,  as  she  stood  at  his  side,  studying  the  work  and 
praising  it. 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  great  a  gift." 

"  I  think  it  belongs  to  you  more  than  it  belongs  to 
me." 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  say  that.  But  I  feel  it  is 
really  too  great  a  gift.  It  overpowers  and  bewilders 
me  to  think  of  possessing  it." 

"  I  should  like  you  to  receive  from  me  something 
that  has  come  out  from  myself,  something  that 
represents  the  ideal  after  which  I  am  struggling  in 
my  art  You  have  helped  me  on  the  road.  This 
picture,  which  could  not  have  existed  except  for  you, 
marks  an  advance." 

"  You  make  me  happy." 
432 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

"  You  have  made  me  happy  too." 

She  was  silent. 

He  said,  going  to  the  picture  and  moving  it  a  little 
on  the  easel, "  It  can  do  no  harm  for  you  to  know  that 
while  I  have  been  painting  here,  I  have  been — it  is  a 
strange  word  for  me  to  use ! — but  I  have  really  been 
happy." 

He  came  back  from  the  picture,  but  did  not  look  at 
her.  "  Science,  I  believe,  could  explain  the  reason  of 
this  happiness,  and  give  a  name  to  the  machinery.  It 
is  a  case  of  telepathy.  You  are  happy.  Your  presence 
has  diffused  happiness,  and  I  have  received  it.  Well, 
I  am  very  grateful." 

"  Mr.  Grafton,"  she  said  quietly,  "  will  you  tell  me 
why  you  are  not  a  happy  man  ?  "  She  raised  her  head, 
and  looked  at  him.  But  he  kept  his  eyes  from  her. 

"  A  poet  says,"  he  answered,  speaking  with  a  quiet 
evenness  of  tone,  "  that  this  earth  is  a  place  '  where 
but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow  and  leaden-eyed 
despairs.'  It  depends,  I  suppose,  upon  what  is  behind 
one  and  what  is  before." 

"  Yes,  on  what  is  before." 

"  If  it  is  a  bubble  floating  before  one  and  a  spectre 
stalking  behind,  I  think  it  must  be  difficult  to  be 
happy." 

"  Why  need  it  be  a  bubble  before  ? " 

"  Because " 

"  You  will  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Do  you  realise,  Miss  Kindred,  that  your  interest 
in  my  life  is — very  delightful?"  He  was  going  to 
say  "an  agony  and  a  torture,"  and  other  words, 
perhaps,  uttered  out  of  the  extreme  hunger  of  his 

433  2  F 


The  Shadow 

heart ;  but  he  checked,  remembering  that  he  was  a 
man  wearing  a  mask,  and  said,  "  very  delightful,"  as 
though  her  sympathy  amused  him. 

She  became  instantly  cold.  "  Oh,  but  please  don't 
think,"  she  said,  with  distress,  "that  I  am  merely 
curious  about  you." 

"  I  know  that  you  are  kind,  too  kind." 

"  You  seemed  as  if  you  shrank  from  my  sympathy, 
and  shrinking  from  it,  you  made  it  something  mean 
and  vulgar." 

"  Please  don't  say  that." 

"  No ;  but  I  realise  that  you  wish  to  hide  your 
sorrow.  I  feel  reproved."  She  paused  and  looked 
frankly  into  his  eyes  with  a  grave  serenity.  "  Excess 
of  zeal  is  responsible  for  my  blunder.  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean  ?  Because  I  have  been  so  unhappy 
myself,  and  because  I  am  now  so  happy,  so  very 
happy,  I  am  consumed  with  ardour  to  make  proselytes. 
I  feel  that  there  is  no  unhappiness  which  I  could  not 
dissipate.  It  is  the  enthusiasm*  of  the  convert.  You 
must  forgive  me.  Another  day — some  day,  perhaps — 
we  will  talk  about  these  things.  I  should  like  very 
much  to  show  my  thankfulness  to  you  for  your 
interference  in  my  life,  by  interfering  as  successfully 
in  yours.  There !  I  am  candid  with  you.  I  know 
you  are  unhappy.  I  am  interested  in  you.  I  want 
to  make  you  happy." 

He  made  no  answer.  His  large  eyes,  full  of 
suppressed  tenderness,  regarded  her  with  gratitude. 
He  seemed  as  if  he  did  not  speak,  because  his  eyes 
said  everything.  He  remained  where  he  was  when 
the  door  had  closed  upon  her. 

434 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

The  picture  was  sent  to  Paris  to  be  framed  and 
tc  be  exhibited,  before  it  returned  to  the  little  parson- 
age in  the  Cumberland  Hills.  Christopher  wanted 
his  gift  to  be  crowned  by  the  applause  of  the  world 
before  he  presented  it  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

There  was  now  no  occasion  for  his  visits  to  the 
parsonage,  but  he  came  every  day,  and,  because  he 
was  idle,  was  more  than  ever  in  the  company  of 
Rose.  Their  friendship  ripened  and  became  rapidly 
intimate  with  that  extreme  of  delicacy  which  is  one 
of  the  components  of  fine  natures.  This  intimacy 
in  their  conversations  was  never  playful  or  light ; 
they  passed  with  a  stride  alike  over  mere  common- 
place and  mere  talk,  and  came  near  to  each  other 
in  the  region  of  intellect.  Sorrow  had  made  the 
boy  and  girl  stage  of  friendship  impossible  for  both. 
They  were  thinking  souls.  Neither  had  a  disposition 
to  dally  with  life,  or  a  taste  for  the  trivial. 

Because  both  were  serious,  swift  was  the  progress 
of  their  intimacy,  and  profound  was  the  spirit  of  their 
fellowship.  If  they  walked  in  the  valley  or  climbed 
the  mountains,  it  was  not  to  titter  at  little  things  or 
to  insult  great  things  with  flippancy  and  cynicism, 
not  to  gossip  of  insignificant  people  or  to  show  each 
other  how  clever  and  how  original  they  could  be, 
but  it  was  to  enjoy  all  lovely  forr?/?  and  sounds  and 
colours,  to  take  delight  in  the  blue  sky,  the  living 
air,  the  flowers  of  the  fields,  and  as  they  went  thus 
happily  along,  to  discuss  without  violence  of  prejudice 
or  intolerance  of  conviction,  the  mysteries  of  existence, 
the  destiny  of  humanity,  and  the  conflicting  specula- 
tions of  philosophy. 

435  2  F  2 


The  Shadow 

Neither  of  these  two  people,  this  burdened  man  and 
this  girl  fresh  from  the  education  of  a  sharp  sorrow, 
was  deeply  read,  nor  in  the  least  scholastic.  Happily 
for  them  they  were  complete  strangers  to  the  pedantry 
of  the  schools.  Christopher  had  his  knowledge  of 
men,  such  as  it  was  ;  Rose  had  her  intuitions,  her 
experience  of  suffering,  and  her  love  for  Christ. 

Over  both  of  them,  viewless  and  unrealised,  hovered 
the  spirit  of  John  Kindred. 

One  day  Rose  said  to  Christopher  as  they  set  out 
for  a  walk  in  the  valley,  "  I  had  a  letter  this  morning 
from  my  sister ;  I  should  like  to  ask  your  advice 
about  it" 

"  Is  she  happier  ?  " 

"  She  says  she  is.  I  had  written  to  her  saying 
that  my  father  was  so  much  better  that  I  thought 
I  might  soon  return  to  help  her." 

"  You  are  not  going  back  to  that  place." 

"  Her  answer  has  thrown  my  plans  into  confusion  ; 
I  had  intended  to  go  back." 

"  I  had  never  contemplated  such  a  thing." 

"  It  is  where  I  ought  to  be.  My  father  is  glad 
that  I  am  with  him ;  but  his  happiness  is  quite 
independent  of  me.  It  is  impregnable.  On  the 
other  hand,  my  sister's  life  needs  companionship  more 
than  any  life  I  can  imagine.  You  have  seen  it. 
You  know  what  it  is.  Her  life  is  the  tragedy  of 
a  misalliance.  She  is  married  to  a  man  separated 
from  her  by  every  quality  which  makes  alliance  not 
only  pleasant  but  endurable.  A  madness  of  her  youth 
has  brought  down  upon  her  head  this  terrible  and 
unalterable  consequence.  She  is  tragically  placed ; 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

I  have  never  seen  any  woman  so  dreadfully  punished. 
And  I  don't  think  any  woman  could  bear  her  sorrow 
as  she  bears  it.  This  letter,  for  instance.  She  says 
that  if  I  come  back  to  her  it  would  mean  that  the 
children  must  come  too.  She  has  thought  over  what 
you  said  about  them.  For  their  sakes  she  wishes 
them  to  remain  with  their  grandfather.  She  has 
spoken  to  her  husband,  and  he  is  indifferent  to  their 
future.  So  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  them  from 
remaining  here,  and  she  begs  me  to  keep  them, 
and  stay  with  them  as  long  as  my  father  lives." 

"  Does  she  miss  them  as  well  as  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  she  says  never  one  word  about  that.  But  I 
know  how  she  misses  them." 

"  You  must  not  go  back." 

"  Hers  is  a  nature,  hard,  stubborn,  and  enduring. 
She  was  always  hard,  strangely  hard,  but  it  was  with 
a  sort  of  headstrong  wildness  and  vehemence  of  animal 
spirits.  Now  it  is  cold  and  enduring.  And  under  the 
hardness  there  is  a  dumb  suffering.  Do  you  know  I 
sometimes  think  that  when  she  came  to  herself,  into 
her  heart  was  born,  for  the  first  time,  the  tenderness 
of  a  child,  all  the  first  tenderness  of  quite  a  young 
child,  which  she  herself  never  knew  in  childhood.  She 
has  seemed  to  me  over  and  over  again  a  hard  and 
embittered  woman,  bewildered  by  the  heart  of  a  child. 
She  is  not  afraid  of  the  world  or  terrified  by  her  position, 
but  she  is  confused  by  entirely  new  feelings  and  new 
thoughts  working  in  herself.  Do  I  explain  to  you  what 
I  mean  ?  It  is  very  difficult  to  express  it.  She  is  proud 
and  silent  in  her  suffering ;  until  you  knew  her  inti- 
mately and  watched  her  carefully  you  would  only 

437 


The  Shadow 

think  of  her  as  a  woman  hardened  and  embittered  by 
a  rough  experience  ;  but  I  feel  sure  that  her  hardness 
and  bitterness  are  only  a  cloak,  and  a  poor  frayed  cloak, 
too  worn  to  hide  the  perplexity  of  new  feelings  and 
new  thoughts — the  feelings  and  thoughts  of  a  quite 
young  child." 

"  I  feel  an  infinite  compassion  for  her.  Ask  your 
father  what  you  should  do.  If  you  think  you  ought 
to  go  back,  someone  could  be  engaged  to  look  after 
the  children.  But  don't  go  back  if  it  is  at  all  possible 
to  avoid  it.  That  is  not  your  atmosphere." 

Rose  told  her  father,  very  gently  and  tenderly,  that 
night  the  story  of  poor  Louise  and  her  wretchedness. 
She  endeavoured  not  to  pain  him,  but  to  make  him 
realise  the  strength  of  her  call  she  had  perforce  to  lift 
the  curtain  from  the  terrible  and  sordid  drama  of  the 
Hound  Inn.  The  old  man  was  so  horrified  that  he 
could  not  speak. 

"  She  is  no  longer  hard  and  unkind,"  said  Rose. 
"  She  doesn't  show  it,  but  she  is  quite  gentle  now,  and 
so  very  brave." 

The  old  man  said  very  slowly  and  very  thoughtfully, 
with  an  effort  to  control  his  voice,  "  I  have  always 
prayed  for  her  ;  God  must  be  there,  if  her  heart  is  not 
closed  against  Him." 

"  Her  heart  is  opening." 

"  Rose,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  tell  me  the  truth."  He 
laid  a  hand  that  was  trembling  like  a  leaf  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  searched  her  eyes  steadily.  "  Her 
husband — he  is  a  monster  ?  '* 

"  He  is  cruel." 

"  Then  she  must  come  back  to  me  here." 
438 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

"  Ah !  she  will  never  leave  her  punishment.  No,  she 
clings  to  it.  It  is  her  expiation." 

The  old  man  burst  into  tears.  His  head  dropped 
on  his  bosom.  He  seemed  to  collapse.  Suddenly  he 
raised  his  face,  all  wet  and  drawn  and  white — "  I  will 
go  to  her ! "  he  cried.  "  Yes,  I  will  go  to  my  child. 
God  tells  me." 

Rose  tried  to  restrain  him. 

"  By  the  lips  of  your  mother,  who  is  an  angel,  God 
has  spoken  to  me,"  cried  the  old  man.  "  Go  to  her — 
the  voice  was  loud  in  my  soul.  Go  to  her  !  I  will  go." 

She  laid  her  loving  hand  upon  him,  drew  herself 
close  to  him,  and  said  all  that  could  be  said  to  expel 
the  thought  of  this  pilgrimage  from  his  mind,  fondling 
and  kissing  him  between  the  words.  As  she  spoke, 
growing  more  forceful  and  more  eloquent  as  the  hope- 
lessness of  such  an  expedition  struck  deeper  and  deeper 
into  her  mind,  the  old  man  became  quiet  and  calm 
and  still. 

"  You  have  given  me  peace,"  said  Rose,  "  you  have 
made  everything  plain  to  me ;  you  have  taught  me 
where  to  look  for  serenity,  and  at  last  my  spirit  is 
at  rest ;  do  you  think  I  should  hinder  you  from  going 
to  Louise  if  I  thought  you  could  give  her  that  peace  ? 
But  the  heart  must  be  in  a  certain  state  to  receive 
what  you  have  to  give.  She  has  not  yet  reached  that 
state.  And  nothing,  nothing!  that  you  or  I  can  do 
would  ever  induce  her  to  return  here,  to  leave  her 
punishment  and  take  her  freedom." 

He  waited  till  she  had  make  an  end,  and  for  some 
moments  after  was  silent,  regarding  her  with  the 
utmost  tenderness.  "  Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  said 

439 


The  Shadow 

presently,  speaking  with  great  gentleness,  "that  the 
wonder  and  beauty  of  Christ's  character  lies  in  His 
love,  in  His  love  for  sinners  ?     He  loves — think  what 
that  word  means ! — men  and  women  for  whom  even 
the  most  imperfect   of  us   feel  horror   and   aversion. 
Only  God  can  reveal  such  a  height  and  depth  of  love ! 
There  is  no  man  or  woman  on  the  earth,  however  deeply 
sunken  in  sin,  however  branded  by  infamy,  however 
hardened  by  iniquity,  over  whose  soul  he  does  not 
yearn  with  the  love  of  a  father  for  his  child.    It  is  for 
sinners  that  He  revealed  His  love  upon  the  Cross. 
God    so  loved  the  world,  so  loved  sinners!      Surely 
there  can  be  no  use  made  in  heaven,  among  the  angels 
who  continually  behold  the  face  of  the  Father,  of  such 
poor   human   words   as   express   disdain,  detestation, 
and  despair  of  humanity.     We  say  that  this  tragedy 
of  my  dear  child  is  '  sordid.'     Sordid  !     Do  you  think 
that  that  word  is   used  in  heaven  ?    To  God  and  to 
the  angels  of  God  she  is  a  soul  wandering  in  darkness, 
a    soul    most    precious    and    dear,    a    soul    perhaps 
requiring  the  fullest  bitterness  of  suffering  before  it 
can  become  a  soul  capable  of  feeling  the  need  for  a 
Saviour,  but  never,  never  once  in  all  the  agony  and 
darkness  of  her  suffering,  anything  but  a  soul  most 
precious,  most  precious  and  most  dear.     Now,  in  the 
mercy  of  God,  the  hour  has  come  for  her  redemption. 
The  hard  heart  is  softened,   the   proud   spirit   is   no 
longer  self-sufficing.     Now  is  the  opportunity  of  God. 
This   precious  soul  is  in  the  darkness  still,  but   she 
is  at  the  gate  of  the  dawn.     I  will  go  to  her.     God 
«ends  me.     I  will  take  her  hand,  the  hand  of  my  dear 
child,  and  I  will  lead  her  to  the  light.     Lighten  our 

440 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

darkness,  we  beseech  Thee,  O  Lord.  Ah,  when  she 
kneels  to  God's  love — when  she  acknowledges  that  the 
sighing  of  a  contrite  heart  and  the  desire  of  such  as 
be  sorrowful  are  all  that  humanity  can  fitly  offer  to 
the  great  God  of  the  universe,  Who  is  so  patient  with 
the  least  of  His  children,  then  I  shall  know  that  my 
prayers  are  at  last  answered,  and  that  the  blessed  hour 
of  my  deliverance  is  at  hand.  Do  not  seek,  dear 
child,  to  stay  me.  Very  plainly,  very  clearly,  I  have 
heard  the  command.  To-morrow  I  will  go  to  her." 
He  leaned  forward,  laid  his  right  hand  upon  her  head, 
and  concluded,  "  To-morrow  you  and  Christopher  must 
go  into  the  church  and  pray  for  me  and  for  her." 

When  on  the  following  morning  Christopher  arrived 
at  the  door  of  the  church,  he  found  Rose  standing 
under  the  tower,  her  hand  on  the  still  bell-rope,  a  new 
gravity  in  her  eyes. 

She  told  him  what  had  occurred  on  the  previous 
night,  and  said  that  her  father  had  already  set  out  for 
Blakeney.  Then  she  added,  "  He  wishes  that  the  bell 
should  ring,  and  he  asked  that  we  should  pray  for  him." 
He  became  very  white.  The  story  of  the  old  man 
setting  out  to  seek  his  daughter,  even  as  his  mother 
had  once  set  out  to  seek  her  son,  moved  him  greatly. 
The  thought  that  he  should  kneel  alone  in  the 
church  with  Rose  Kindred  and  pray,  really  pray,  for 
this  dear  and  faithful  old  saint  of  God,  made  him 
shudder  in  his  soul. 

Rose  passed  into  the  church.  The  bell  rope, 
released  from  her  hand,  swung  a  little.  It  seemed  to 
swing  towards  Christopher.  He  watched  it  for  a 
moment,  listening  to  the  sound  of  her  retreating  foot- 

441 


The   Shadow 

steps  grov/ing  fainter  in  the  dim  interior  of  the  house 
of  prayer.  As  he  listened,  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  tower,  he  felt  upon  his  head  the  sunlight  and 
the  gentle  breathing  of  the  dawn.  He  was  conscious 
of  the  scent  of  hot  grass  in  the  churchyard  mingling 
with  the  dry  odour  of  old  stones  in  the  tower.  He 
heard  the  singing  of  birds  close  to  him  and  the 
distant  bleating  of  sheep  crossing  the  upland.  It  was 
like  a  Sabbath  in  his  boyhood. 

The  footsteps  ceased.  The  rope  hung  straight  and 
still.  She  was  praying. 

He  took  the  rope  and  sounded  the  first  stroke  of 
the  bell.  The  creak  and  clanging  in  the  belfry  tower, 
the  pull  of  the  rope  upon  his  arm,  the  sense  of 
action  and  life  which  immediately  came  to  him  with 
output  of  effort,  dissipated  the  reverie  from  his  mind. 
He  felt  his  breathing  come  to  him  again.  He  realised 
his  body.  The  world  of  sense  issued  from  a  mist 
and  became  vivid  to  his  eyes.  He  was  conscious 
of  himself. 

When  the  bell  of  the  clock  struck  across  his  ringing, 
he  steadied  the  rope,  hung  it  up  to  the  hook  from 
which  Rose  had  dislodged  it,  and  entered  the  church. 
She  was  on  her  knees  in  a  pew  close  to  the  reading- 
desk.  The  place  was  full  of  shadows  and  silence. 
Nowhere  was  there  movement  of  any  kind.  The 
bowed  figure,  lonely  in  the  dim  solitude  of  the  church, 
was  like  a  sculpture. 

He  knelt  down  in  the  last  pew,  and  watched  her. 
She  was  praying.  Her  soul  was  in  communion  with 
the  mysterious  and  invisible  force  of  the  universe 
whom  Christians  name  God.  Into  the  immensity  of 

442 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

the  universe  she  was  sending  a  little  spiral  of  human 
breath — a  worded  but  unuttered  supplication,  a  phrased 
but  silent  petition,  a  prayer.  Prayer!  The  creature 
addressing  the  Creator,  the  vessel  addressing  the  Potter, 
dust  speaking  to  Infinity  ! 

How  still  she  was. 

They  were  alone  together  in  this  church,  separated 
from  each  other  by  a  few  paces,  the  distance  between 
their  souls,  infinite.  She  could  pray. 

Ah  !  if  he  could  cover  his  face  with  his  hands,  could 
bow  his  head  upon  his  breast,  and  forgetting  her,  this 
church,  himself,  his  reason,  and  his  past,  could  cry,  "Our 
Father"  into  the  infinite — if  this  were  possible,  if 
this  were  possible ! 

How  happy  she  must  be,  to  pray.  Did  people  who 
prayed  night  and  day  ever  thank  God  for  that  sublime 
capacity  ?  To  be  confident  of  Fatherhood,  to  feel  that 
in  the  invisible  there  was  goodwill  towards  them,  to 
have  no  fear  in  kneeling  down,  to  be  assured  that  they 
might  speak  as  a  child  to  its  father,  to  have  no  dread, 
no  dread  at  all,  to  feel  no  awful  isolation,  no  sense  of 
banishment,  not  to  be  conscious  of  the  atheism  of  a 
soul  that  has  sinned  itself  out  of  the  mercy  of  the 
universe — how  immeasurable  the  blessing,  how  sublime 
the  gift !  If  those  who  prayed  knew  for  a  little 
moment  the  deprivation  of  those  who  dare  not  pray, 
would  they  not  add  a  new  thankfulness  to  their  worship, 
a  fresh  fervour  to  their  adoration  ? 

If  only  he  could  pray  !  If  only  he  could  hope  !  He 
was  still  kneeling,  still  reflecting,  when  she  rose  slowly 
from  her  knees.  He  got  up  hastily  and  preceded  her 
out  of  the  church. 

443 


The  Shadow 

Had  he  prayed  ? 

A  little  later  in  the  day  they  were  walking  in  the 
valley  ;  they  were  quiet  and  subdued,  talking  chiefly  of 
the  old  clergyman  and  his  journey  to  Yorkshire. 
Suddenly  the  Comte  de  Lyons,  riding  a  showy  horse 
with  an  over-liveried  groom  in  attendance,  appeared 
before  them  at  a  bend  in  the  road. 

He  looked  towards  Rose  as  he  approached,  con- 
fidently and  with  a  gallant  pleasantness.  He  appeared 
as  if  he  wished  to  salute  her,  and  counted  on  a  smile 
from  her  eyes. 

But  she  kept  her  gaze  straight  before  her 
and  was  very  white.  When  they  passed  he  was 
smiling  with  quiet  amusement,  his  eyebrows  raised 
a  little,  like  a  man  of  the  world  diverted  by  rustic 
prudery.  That  smile  heated  the  blood  in  Chris- 
topher's veins. 

"  I  hate  that  man,"  he  said,  with  energy. 

Rose  made  no  reply  till  after  the  groom  had  passed, 
and  they  had  left  the  road  for  the  fields. 

"  I  used  to  hate  him  too,"  she  said  quietly.  "  But  I 
have  forgiven  him." 

Christopher  remembered  how  he  had  once  found 
happiness  in  the  dreadful  thought  that  perhaps  this 
woman,  whom  he  now  loved  with  all  his  being,  had 
so  passed  out  of  goodness  as  to  be  capable  of  under- 
standing the  darkness  of  his  soul.  He  shuddered  at 
the  thought,  and  felt  himself  grow  wretched  and 
miserable  as  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"  I  remember,"  she  said,  "  that  I  once  told  you, 
when  we  were  speaking  of  my  return  home,  that  there 
was  a  reason  why  I  could  not  come.  I  used  to  think 

444 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

the  Comte  de  Lyons  was  that  reason.  He  was  not. 
The  only  reason  was  my  own  pride." 

They  walked  on,  and  she  said  presently,  "  Shall  I 
tell  you  the  story  ?  It  will  complete  a  conversation  we 
once  had  about  penitence.  Do  you  remember  it  ? 
You  were  inclined  to  think  that  I  was  merely  curious 
about  your  life " 

"  No,  I  did  not  think  that.  But  tell  me  your  story. 
I  have  wanted  to  hear  it  for  a  long  time." 

With  only  the  smallest  signs  of  self-consciousness, 
Rose  told  her  story  as  they  crossed  the  sun-bathed 
meadows.  They  walked  slowly  because  of  the  heat, 
sauntering  beside  a  narrow  river  which  flowed  slug- 
gishly from  the  dazzling  mountain  ahead  of  them. 
The  air  was  oppressively  still  ;  no  birds  were  singing  ; 
the  cattle  lay  in  the  grass  or  stood  together  under  the 
trees,  beating  off  the  flies  with  their  tails  ;  a  few  white 
butterflies  were  the  only  moving  things  in  that  green 
stillness. 

The  story  was  a  simple  one.  It  was  for  Christopher, 
not  a  confession  of  guilt,  but  an  unconscious  manifes- 
tation of  pure  innocence.  He  shuddered  as  he  listened 
to  this  story,  recalling  the  memory  of  his  base  suspicion. 
Rose  was  not  nearer  to  him  for  this  memory  of  her 
past,  but  removed  infinitely  above  his  reach.  Every 
word  that  she  uttered  lifted  her  higher  to  the  heavens 
and  sank  him  deeper  into  the  abyss. 

It  was  the  story  of  a  girl's  romance,  and  a  pure 
woman's  disillusionment.  The  Comte  de  Lyons  had 
met  her  one  day  in  the  fields  and  had  spoken  to  her. 
She  was  quite  young,  and  he  appeared  to  treat  her  as 
a  child.  She  listened  to  him,  and  was  delighted  by 

445 


The  Shadow 

his  manner,  his  words,  and  his  good  looks.  They  met 
again  and  again,  in  the  fields,  in  the  woods,  and  at  last 
in  the  gardens  of  his  house.  He  told  her  that  he 
could  not  come  to  the  parsonage  because  he  was  a 
Roman  Catholic,  but  that  she  must  take  pity  on  him 
and  come  to  the  Hall.  In  those  days,  she  confessed, 
she  had  no  sense  of  duty,  and  it  gratified  some  instinct 
of  her  being  to  have  this  romance  in  her  life,  secret 
from  her  father,  from  everybody.  She  visited  the 
Count  at  the  Hall  ;  he  wrote  letters  to  her,  he  lent  her 
books,  and  showed  her  pictures. 

He  told  her  that  he  loved  her  above  every  woman  in 
the  world.  Her  head  was  turned.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  else  but  this  wonderful  thing,  that  she  was 
loved.  Life  had  no  other  reality  ;  she  was  like  a  child 
in  a  dream,  a  princess  in  a  fairy  tale.  At  times  the 
dream  was  darkened  by  something  he  said  to  her,  but 
always  he  dissipated  the  shadow  and  brought  back  the 
light  of  dreams  by  explaining  that  his  political  position 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  propose  a  public  marriage. 
Once  when  the  Hall  was  full  of  French  people  he  had 
her  to  stay  there,  and  she  went  in  spite  of  her  father's 
interdict.  The  Count  bought  her  beautiful  dresses  for 
this  house  party  and  gave  her  jewels.  Among  the 
people  was  an  old  French  lady,  who  took  Rc*e  to 
Paris  with  her,  and  tried  to  educate  her  (so  she  said) 
for  the  great  position  which  would  one  day  be  hers,  if 
she  were  wise.  Rose  returned  to  Penraven  frightened 
and  alarmed  by  this  education.  She  had  told  so  many 
people  that  she  was  soon  going  to  be  married  to  the 
Count  that  she  dared  not  for  some  time  express  to 
him  her  fears  and  anxietie?.  She  was  more  careful  in 

446 


A    Sudden    Temptation 

her  relations  with  him,  but  she  shrank  from  approach- 
ing the  point  which  might  mean  for  her  an  end  of  the 
dream  and  humiliation  in  the  eyes  of  everybody. 

All  this  time  her  father  was  appealing  to  her  with 
the  most  loving  tenderness.  She  withstood  every 
appeal,  declared  that  she  meant  to  marry  the  Count, 
and  kept  on  her  way. 

Then  came  the  day  when  she  could  no  longer  live 
in  doubt.  She  must  know,  for  the  sake  of  her  own 
peace,  whether  this  lover  who  professed  to  be  dis- 
tracted by  his  passion  for  her,  really  and  honourably 
loved  her.  She  asked  him  this  question  one  day  in 
his  own  house,  where  he  had  implored  her  to  come, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  violent  scene,  for  he  had  tried  to 
kiss  her. 

The  sternness  with  which  she  repulsed  him,  the 
severity  with  which  she  asked  him  her  great  question, 
changed  him  from  an  imploring  lover  to  an  angry  and 
mocking  scoundrel. 

He  called  her  a  little  fool. 

It  was  not  repentance  for  her  folly,  but  a  sense  of 
humiliation — in  a  word,  a  fear  of  ridicule,  which  had 
driven  the  poor  innocent  child,  who  had  lived  so  long 
in  the  golden  atmosphere  of  her  dream,  from  her 
home,  from  her  neighbours,  from  the  scene  of  her 
disillusionment. 

She  told  Christopher  that  it  was  only  when  she  had 
learned  to  laugh  at  her  girl's  folly,  only  when  she  felt 
that  the  Count  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  her,  that 
she  realised  something  of  the  true  seriousness  of  her 
life.  The  sight  of  her  sister's  wretchedness  in  the 
Hound  Inn,  the  drama  of  that  poor  soul  bitterly 

447 


The  Shadow 

reaping  what  she  had  sown  in  a  headlong  girlhood, 
and  contact  with  the  little  children,  made  her  think 
solemnly  of  life  and  its  responsibilities.  But  it  was 
not  until  he  had  brought  her  back  to  her  father,  not 
until  that  holy  and  gracious  mind  had  revealed  to  her 
the  deepest  things  of  the  soul,  that  she  saw  the  past  in 
its  true  light,  saw  it  as  it  was,  and  seeing  it,  lost  the 
burden  of  its  memory.  It  was  no  longer  remorse 
which  weighed  her  down,  but  penitence  which  urged 
her  forward — penitence  which  bowed  and  uplifted  her, 
penitence  which  gave  her  sorrow  and  happiness,  peni- 
tence which  flung  her  into  the  arms  of  divine  love  and 
assured  her  of  the  forgiveness  of  sins. 

"  What  I  have  told  you,"  she  said,  "  is  an  answer  to 
that  question  of  yours — do  you  remember  it  ? — whether 
I  had  myself  ever  experienced  penitence  and  remorse  ? " 

They  turned  to  retrace  their  steps. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  remorse  is,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  because  you  have  never  sinned." 

She  said  quickly,  "  But  how  can  you  say  that  ? 
What  is  sin  if  all  the  pain  I  caused  my  father  was  not 
sin?" 

She  looked  at  him  almost  with  challenge,  as  she 
asked  this  question,  and  he  turned  his  head  to  meet 
her  gaze. 

Always  she  had  appeared  very  beautiful  to  his  eyes, 
but  at  that  moment  he  felt  that  his  Madonna  was  a 
monstrous  blunder.  Her  loveliness  was  like  an  angel, 
the  radiance  of  her  beauty  was  like  a  glory.  He  had 
thought  of  her  as  corrupted  by  the  world,  and  she  was 
shining  with  innocence.  He  had  thought  of  her  soul 
as  darkened  by  a  terrible  memory,  and  it  was  clothed 

448 


'TELL  ME  IN  WHAT  WAY  i  HAVE  HELPED  YOU,  CHRISTOPHER  ? ' 

[See  page  490. 


A  Sudden  Temptation 

with  brightness.  To  the  black  and  desolate  abyss, 
where  his  own  crime  had  condemned  him  to  dwell  in 
eternal  despair,  he  had  presumed  to  drag  in  thought 
this  lovely  spirit,  unspotted  by  the  world.  He  com- 
pared her  with  women  of  fashion  who  pass  for  good 
women  ;  he  compared  her  innocence,  which  had  shrunk 
from  disillusionment  as  though  she  had  commited  a 
sin,  with  the  bold  and  self-satisfied  virtue  of  women 
who  would  laugh  at  her  for  inexperienced  rusticity. 
How  pure  she  was,  how  undefiled  the  natural  delicacy 
of  her  soul !  Ah  !  and  how  hopeless  his  love  for  her, 
his  love  which  was  now  quickened  by  her  wonderful 
goodness  till  it  possessed  him  like  an  inspiration  ! 

"  When  I  look  at  you,"  he  said,  with  impetuous 
passion  and  admiration  burning  in  his  eyes,  "  I  say 
to  myself, 

'  Close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  she  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.' 

You  are  pure,  you  are  good,  you  are  sweet,  you  are 
beautiful — as  the  angels  of  God." 

She  removed  her  gaze  slowly  from  his  face,  and 
looked  ahead  of  her  with  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  you  have  told  me,"  he  said,  "  is  the  story 
of  a  child  who  was  dazzled  by  a  bright  toy  and  for 
a  little  while  forgot  its  father's  love.  You  have  never 
done  evil.  You  never  will  do  evil.  You  are  one  of 
those  happy  spirits  whom  the  angels  do  not  need  to 
guard,  because  they  are,  like  themselves,  incapable  ot 
sin.  And  you  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins,  only 
because  you  do  not  realise  what  sin  can  be." 

"  Doesn't  the  extravagance  of  what  you  have  said 
449  2  G 


The  Shadow 

rebuke  you  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  smile  that  was  all 
sweetness  and  yet  all  seriousness.  "Think  for  a 
moment.  To  have  held  such  thoughts  as  I  have 
held,  and  for  a  long  period,  about  my  father,  was 
a  sin  which  would  pain  thousands  of  daughters  whose 
lives  are  one  long  devotion  to  their  parents.  They 
would  think  I  was  dreadful.  And  to  have  lived  as  I 
have  lived,  not  for  a  little  while,  but  for  years,  with 
a  complete  and  careless  indifference  to  the  love  which 
now  gives  me  peace  and  security,  was  also  a  sin,  and 
a  great  sin.  But  I  am  happy  now.  I  no  longer 
blame  myself,  or  waste  my  thoughts  in  thinking  of 
what  is  over  and  past.  I  press  all  my  energies  into 
the  gratitude  and  joy  which  now  possess  me."  She 
turned  to  him  again.  "That  is  what  you  must  do," 
she  said,  quietly  and  almost  with  pleading.  Then, 
with  assurance,  she  said,  "  That  is  what  you  will  do." 

As  he  met  her  gaze,  as  he  felt  the  beauty  of  her 
face  shining  upon  him,  he  was  suddenly  conscious 
of  a  revelation — a  temptation. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  with  the  witchery  of  her  eyes 
upon  his  senses,  "why  shouldn't  I  ?  What  a  fool 
I  have  been  to  live  in  the  past  ;  one  does  no  good 
by  regrets."  He  laughed.  "  Miss  Kindred,"  he 
said,  with  a  race  in  his  words,  "  I  believe  you  have 
worked  a  miracle.  Indeed,  I  am  sure  you  have.  I 
experience  the  most  delightful  repentance — I  repent 
of  a  most  mad  and  irrational  remorse  !  From  to-day 
I  will  be  filled  with  the  joy  of  life.  You  have  cured 
me.  How  grateful  I  am  to  you.  I  feel  as  if  you 
had  pulled  a  great  curtain  away,  and  let  in  the  light 
from  all  sides.  I  repent.  I  repent  of  useless  remorse." 

450 


A  Sudden  Temptation 

He  remembered  ever  after  the  wild  happiness  which 
leaped  in  his  heart  as  he  walked  home  with  her 
through  the  fields,  the  sunset  in  his  face,  the  sense 
of  her  presence  and  her  beauty  throbbing  in  his 
pulses. 

He  would  wear  a  mask,  but  a  different  mask. 
The  iron  should  be  thrown  away  for  ever,  and 
hypocrisy  should  weave  him  a  covering  for  his  soul, 
soft,  charming,  and  becoming.  He  would  bury  the 
past  with  his  own  hands,  he  would  keep  it  a  secret, 
he  would  make  himself  appear  glad,  and  he  would 
say  to  this  woman,  "  I  am  happy  and  I  love  you  ; 
come,  be  my  wife,  and  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove." 
Oh,  how  delicious  and  joyful  he  could  make  his  life. 

What  a  fool  he  had  been  ! 

He  was  a  lie  as  it  was,  he  had  only  to  change 
the  hue  of  that  lie  from  black  to  white,  from  sombre 
to  gay,  from  melancholy  to  brightness,  to  be  the 
happiest  man  on  the  earth. 

He  walked  back  through  the  meadows  in  a  vision. 
Delicious  pleasure  coursed  through  his  veins.  The 
heat  of  the  sun  bathed  him  in  joy,  the  scents  of  the 
grass  rose  like  an  intoxication  to  his  senses,  the 
hummings  and  murmurous  buzzings  of  the  air  chanted 
freedom  to  his  soul.  The  burden  had  fallen.  He 
was  free.  Life  was  good  and  delightsome. 

"What  a  fool  I  have^een,"  he  kept  saying  to 
himself,  "what  a  fool !"  He  had  forgotten  the  dark- 
ness of  his  soul  in  the  ravishing  beauty  and  exquisite 
charm  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  named  but  a 
moment  before  pure  and  good  as  the  angels  of  God. 

451  2  G  2 


M 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 
THE  LIGHT  RETURNS 

R.  KINDRED  did  not  return  to  Penraven  for 
three  days.     Every  day  of  his  absence  Chris- 
topher rang  the  church  bell,  and  Rose  prayed 
for  her  father,  her  sister,  and  for  him. 

They  spent  most  of  their  leisure  during  these 
three  days  in  the  parsonage  garden.  They  were 
days  of  inexpressible  delight  for  both  of  them.  Both 
were  conscious  that  a  mysterious  barrier  was  now 
raised  between  them  which  made  their  friendship 
self-conscious  and  intimate  in  an  altogether  delightful 
way.  Something  of  a  tender  lightness  entered  into 
their  discourse,  an  element  of  gentle  and  almost 
mischievous  playfulness.  They  were  not  frivolous, 
but  they  were  not  serious.  The  dalliance  of  autumn, 
the  awakening  of  love  in  their  souls,  gave  a  respite 
to  their  minds,  and  they  surrendered  their  hearts 
to  the  happy  influence  of  love  and  nature. 

He  would  sit  gazing  upon  her  with  an  open  admira- 
tion, and  she  would  flush  and  smile,  knowing  that  his 
eyes  were  worshipping  her  beauty.  "  I  should  like  to 
paint  you,"  he  said  one  afternoon  ;  "  not  as  the 
Madonna,  but  as  you  are — all  happiness  and  beauty 
and  delight.  But  I  haven't  the  energy.  I  really  can 

452 


The   Light   Returns 

do  nothing  but  sit  and  look  at  you.  How  happy  a 
poet  would  be  to  sit  in  this  garden  and  watch  all  the 
changes  of  soul  coming  and  going  in  your  face.  A 
poet  whose  spirit  could  only  breathe  in  the  region  of 
loveliness." 

She  would  laugh  at  his  praise,  and  he  would  contend 
with  her  laughter.  They  found  themselves  in  a  lovers' 
controversy.  "  A  beautiful  face,"  he  said,  "  is  the 
expression  of  a  beautiful  soul.  When  one  admires  a 
lovely  face  it  is  a  spiritual  admiration."  She  shook  her 
head,  and  spoke  of  foolish  boys  who  sacrifice  happi- 
ness for  a  pretty  face.  "  Prettiness,"  he  said,  "  is  not 
beauty,  there  are  three  degrees — ugliness,  prettiness, 
loveliness ;  one  may  find  splendour  in  ugliness,  but 
never  in  prettiness.  Prettiness  is  the  most  contemptible 
of  human  forms.  When  I  see  in  magazines  photo- 
graphs of  actresses  and  debutantes  and  brides,  I  am 
filled  with  horror  ;  they  are  so  often  blank  with  inanity." 

Sometimes  he  would  speak  of  his  future.  He 
received  one  day,  through  his  master  in  Paris,  a  letter 
from  Glevering.  Isabel  Grafton  wanted  to  know  all 
about  him  and  wanted  him  to  come  on  a  visit.  He 
told  Rose  about  Glevering,  and  said  that  if  ever  he 
possessed  it  he  would  make  it  the  happiest  place  in 
England. 

"  How  would  you  do  that  ? "  she  asked  in  all 
innocence. 

"  By  making  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  England 
its  mistress." 

These  three  days  of  dallying  with  love  were 
terminated  by  the  arrival  of  a  .telegram  from  Mr. 
Kindred  announcing  the  hour  of  his  arrival  at  the 

453 


The  Shadow 

station.  The  message  concluded  with  the  word 
"alone." 

Rose  was  playing  with  the  children  when  this 
message  arrived.  It  threw  her  into  a  state  of  the 
utmost  grief.  She  went  to  Christopher,  who  had 
been  watching  her  from  a  seat  under  a  tree,  and 
handed  him  the  form.  "The  last  word,"  she  said, 
"  tells  everything." 

He  read  the  message  and  his  face  darkened. 

"  It  means,"  she  said,  "  that  his  heart  is  broken." 

"  One  knew  that  he  must  fail,  but  it  is  dreadful  to 
know  that  he  has  failed.  Yes,  I  am  afraid  it  means 
that  he  will  be  dreadfully  pained." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  most  fear  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  clouded 
with  moisture. 

"  He  is  old,  he  is  frail,  I  fear  that  this  will  be  his 
death-blow." 

He  could  make  no  answer.  He  felt  that  she  was 
right.  He  looked  away  from  her  towards  the  children 
who  were  playing  at  horses  and  were  very  happy. 

Rose  drove  to  meet  her  father,  and  Christopher 
returned  to  his  rooms.  He  was  haunted  all  that 
evening  by  the  tragic  meeting  between  father  and 
daughter,  by  the  sad  confidence  which  they  would 
exchange  in  the  parsonage. 

On  the  following  morning,  when  he  was  ringing  the 
church  bell,  dreading  to  see  the  bowed  figure  of  the 
clergyman  appearing  at  the  lych-gate,  John  Kindred 
suddenly  came  to  him  from  inside  the  church.  He 
was  wearing  his  surplice,  and  instead  of  appearing 
bowed  and  stricken,  his  pale  face  was  lighted  by  a 

454 


The  Light  Returns 

quiet  happiness  and  his  fading  eyes  shone  with  a  deep 
peace. 

The  old  man  put  his  hand  on  Christopher's  head  and 
blessed  him,  smiling  into  his  eyes.  Rose  came  up  the 
path  as  he  turned  back  into  the  church. 

As  she  passed  Christopher  she  said,  "  It  is  better 
than  we  hoped,  and  he  is  quite  happy." 

The  clock  struck  through  the  bell-ringing  ;  Chris- 
topher hung  up  the  rope  and  entered  the  church. 

He  found  himself  strangely  moved  by  hearing  again 
the  familiar  voice  of  the  old  clergyman  sounding 
through  the  church.  He  remembered  the  morning 
when  he  had  stood  outside  in  the  graveyard  and  had 
listened  to  the  words  which  now  he  heard  again  ;  but 
this  time  with  Rose's  voice  sounding  softly  after  the 
minister's  : 

"  We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways  like  lost 
sheep.  .  .  .  We  have  offended  against  Thy  holy  laws.  .  .  . 
But  Thou,  O  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  miserable  offenders. 
Spare  Thou  them,  O  God,  which  confess  their  faults.  Restore 
thou  them  that  are  penitent,  according  to  Thy  promises  declared 
unto  mankind  in  Christ  Jesu  our  Lord." 

And  now  he  heard  other  words,  and  heard  them 
with  an  almost  paralysing  apprehension  of  their 
meaning.  The  sweet  voice  of  the  minister,  who  was 
standing  at  the  reading-desk  with  his  hands  clasped 
at  his  breast,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  face  raised 
to  heaven,  came  like  music  down  the  dim  church  and 
hung  upon  the  beatings  of  Christopher's  heart : 

"...  Who  desireth  not  the  death  of  a  sinner,  but  rather 
that  he  may  turn  from  his  wickedness,  and  live.  ...  He 
pardoneth  and  absolveth — all  them  that  truly  repent.  .  .  . 

455 


The  Shadow 

Wherefore   let  us  beseech  Him  to  grant  us  true  repentance, 
and  His  Holy  Spirit.  .  .  ." 

True  repentance ! 

For  the  rest  of  the  service,  Christopher  reflected 
on  that  phrase.  The  stress,  loving  but  emphatic,  which 
the  old  minister  laid  upon  the  adjective,  haunted  his 
thoughts.  True  repentance  ?  Then  there  was  a  false 
repentance.  A  man  could  repent  of  his  sins  and 
remain  as  he  was  before.  What  could  be  the  difference, 
he  wondered,  between  repentance  and  true  repent- 
ance ? 

A  voice  in  his  soul  said,  "  Yours  is  a  false  repent- 
ance." 

Then  he  remembered  the  words,  "  That  the  rest  of 
our  life  hereafter  may  be  pure  and  holy,  so  that  at 
the  last  we  may  come  to  His  eternal  joy." 

He  went  out  from  the  church  with  the  old  darkness 
deep  in  his  soul,  his  brain  bowed  down  under  the 
conviction  that  he  was  doomed  to  despair,  his  heart 
bitter  with  the  knowledge  of  its  own  hypocrisy. 

He  went  straight  from  the  church  to  his  studio  in 
the  rectory.  He  was  in  a  muse.  When  he  entered 
the  room  his  eyes  came  face  to  face  with  the  words 
— "  lr  the  Lord,  am  thy  Saviour  and  thy  Redeemer." 
He  looked  at  them  for  a  moment,  a  heaviness  in  his 
eyes,  and  then  instinctively,  by  force  of  habit,  turned 
to  the  other  text — "  Christ  shall  give  thee  light."  He 
stood  there  facing  the  emphatic  words,  conscious  that 
he  was  now  further  than  ever  from  any  possible 
benediction  they  might  have  for  him. 

What  had  happened  to  him  ? 

For  three  days  the  influence  of  the  old  minister 
456 


The  Light   Returns 

had  been  removed  from  his  life.  For  three  days 
he  had  lived  under  the  influence  of  a  purely  human 
love.  With  the  loss  of  the  one  influence  and  the 
accession  of  the  other,  he  had  actually  contemplated 
another  atrocious  and  abominable  crime.  He  had 
set  himself  to  deceive  Rose  Kindred,  to  trick  her  and 
cheat  her  into  love.  He  had  sought  to  hide  what  he 
was,  to  make  himself  what  he  was  not,  what  he  could 
never  be — a  good  and  happy  man  with  no  hell  in  his 
past — in  order  that  he  might  win  her  love.  Yes, 
actually,  he  would  hide  from  her  that  he  was  the  man 
who  had  once  and  for  all  time  filled  her  with  horror. 

Why  was  he  now  only  conscious  of  this  crime  ? 

It  was  the  return  of  the  first  influence.  The  hand 
of  blessing  on  his  head,  the  dear  familiar  voice 
praying  with  childlike  confidence  to  God,  the  very 
look  and  presence  of  that  old,  sweet,  tender-hearted 
man  had  restored  to  him  the  solemn  sense  of  eternity 
and  thoughts  of  holiness. 

He  wondered,  as  he  stood  silent  and  still  before  the 
text  on  the  wall,  what  mysterious  diffusion  it  was 
which  issued  from  this  old  man  and  laid  a  restraint 
upon  his  soul. 

Some  pervasive  influence  breathed  from  this 
minister  of  God.  He  needed  not  to  speak,  it  was 
there.  Some  subtle  emission  of  holiness  came  from 
him,  without  effort,  and  without  volition,  like  scent 
from  a  flower,  like  light  from  the  sun. 

"  Christ  shall  give  thee  light." 

He  dwelt  on  the  word  "  light."  He  considered  how 
beautiful  a  mystery  it  is,  this  thing  we  call  light,  this 
glory  and  this  beauty  of  the  universe  without  which 

457 


The  Shadow 

nothing  could  endure,  nothing  could  exist  What  is 
light  ?  Light  of  the  World — what  a  sublime  title ! 
To  live  in  history,  to  descend  down  the  ages,  as  Light 
of  the  World  !  "  Christ  shall  give  thee  light" 

He  turned  from  that  thought,  to  reflect  again  on 
the  influence  of  John  Kindred.  Whatever  it  was,  this 
mysterious  pervasion  stood  in  the  path  of  his  happiness. 
He  could  no  longer  contemplate  the  deception  of 
Rose.  That  dream  was  over.  He  had  approached 
too  near  the  bubble  floating  before ;  it  had  burst 
and  vanished  into  nothingness,  and  still  the  spectre 
stalked  behind.  He  was  a  man  with  a  past  which 
was  an  eternal  present. 

As  he  stood  there,  the  door  opened  and  Rose 
entered  the  room. 

He  started  at  sight  of  her,  and  she  started  at  sight  of 
him,  so  tragic  and  woebegone  was  his  expression. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed.  "What 
has  happened  ? " 

"  Your  father  has  come  back." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  forget." 

"Tell  me,  what  is  the  matter  with  you.  Do  tell 
me.  Something  has  happened.  Yesterday  you  were 
happy.  Now  you  look  as  you  looked  when  you  came 
to  bring  me  back  here.  What  is  it?  May  I  not 
know  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  it  cannot  be.    Do  let  me  help  you." 

"You  cannot  help  me.  No  one  can  help  me.  I 
will  tell  you  all  that  can  be  told.  Your  father's 
absence  was  like  the  removal  of  a  strong  light  His 

458 


The  Light   Returns 

going  away  left  me  in  a  great  darkness,  and  in  that 
darkness  I  dreamed  I  was  different  from  what  I  am. 
Now  he  has  come  back,  and  once  more  I  see  myself 
truly  in  that  strong  light.  My  dream,  in  which  I 
was  very  happy,  is  over.  I  awake  to  dislike  reality. 
What  was  it  we  spoke  of  in  the  valley  the  other  day  ? 
The  joy  of  life !  Yes,  that  was  it.  The  joy  of  life ! 
Well,  in  my  reality  there  is  no  joy  of  life  !  " 

He  moved  away,  going  to  a  box  that  contained 
some  of  his  materials,  and  affecting  to  put  them  in  order. 

She  stood  watching  him,  unhappy  and  irresolute. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  that  you  are  unhappy,"  she  said 
slowly.  "And  if — if  I  cannot  help  you,  I  do  not 
want  to  know  what  is  your  trouble.  But  there  is 
one  thing  I  do  wish  you  would  do  ;  I  wish  you  would 
speak  to  my  father.  I  will  tell  you  why.  I  think 
you  may  magnify  what  troubles  you,  as  I  magnified 
what  troubled  me." 

The  comparison  which  she  made  between  her  case 
and  his,  her  soul  and  character  and  his  soul  and 
character,  her  memory  of  the  past  and  his  memory 
of  the  past,  almost  moved  him  to  smile.  He  raised 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  her.  He  wondered  what  she 
would  say  if  he  suddenly  announced,  "  I  am  the  man 
of  the  Madonna."  This  beautiful  girl,  who  spoke 
about  his  trouble  and  her  trouble,  in  comparison  with 
him,  was  like  a  saint  of  God. 

"Your  father  has  already  done  all  he  can  do  for 
me,"  he  made  answer ;  "  he  has,  unconsciously, 
answered  every  question  I  could  put  to  him." 

She  wavered,  looking  at  him  and  loving  him.  "  He 
is  asking  for  you  now,"  she  said. 

459 


The  Shadow 

"  I  will  go  to  him,  and — say  unto  him  ? " 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  arm.  "  Ah, 
do  !  "  Her  eyes  were  full  of  beseeching.  ' 

He  drew  his  breath  heavily,  looking  down  into  the 
tenderness  of  her  eyes.  Then  he  slowly  straightened 
himself,  and  said,  "  I  have  said  something  which  has 
distressed  you  ;  I  must  have  made  too  much  of  my 
burden.  That  is  one  of  the  warnings  against  egoism  ; 
directly  we  speak  of  ourselves  we  exaggerate,  we  play 
the  actor.  It  is  dreadful.  I  will  never  talk  about 
myself  again." 

He  went  forward  and  held  the  door  open  for  her  to 
pass  out  of  the  room  before  him. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  he  said,  "  that  your  father  has  come 
back  happy.  You  say  the  news  is  good  ? " 

"  He  will  tell  you,"  she  said,  and  did  not  turn  her 
head. 

Christopher  followed  her  down  the  stairs.  She  went 
into  the  garden,  where  the  children  were  playing,  and 
he  turned  to  the  study. 

Mr.  Kindred,  who  was  sitting  at  his  writing-table, 
rose  to  greet  him  with  a  smiling  face. 

"  It  is  good  to  see  you  again,  Christopher !  "  he 
exclaimed  cheerfully,  putting  out  both  his  hands. 
They  talked  for  a  few  moments  of  other  things,  and 
then  the  faithful  and  tender  old  man  turned  to  the 
subject  of  his  Yorkshire  visit. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it,"  he  said,  placing  a 
chair  for  Christopher  before  he  sat  down  himself.  "  I 
am  going  to  ask  your  advice  and  assistance.  I  am 
going  to  beg  to  you ! "  He  smiled,  settled  down  in 
his  chair,  and  continued  :  "  You  saw  Louise  when  you 

460 


The  Light  Returns 

went  to  fetch  my  dear  Rose,  and  you  know  some- 
thing of  the  condition  of  her  mind,  something  of  the 
conditions  of  her  life.  Until  Rose  told  me  the  other 
day,  I  had  no  idea  what  they  were.  When  I  arrived 
at  the  place,  I  found  that  Rose  had  rather  minimised 
than  magnified  the  state  of  affairs.  But,  by  the  mercy 
of  Heaven,  my  visit  came  when  those  dreadful  con- 
ditions had  softened  her  heart  and  made  her  character 
less  proud.  She  was  at  first  quite  unwilling  to  hear 
what  I  had  to  say — indeed,  it  almost  seemed  that  the 
poor  soul  was  endeavouring  to  repulse  me.  But — 
Heaven's  mercy  again — something  I  said  must  have 
lodged  in  her  mind.  Deus  dat  incrementum.  On  the 
following  morning  she  came  to  my  room  before  I  was 
up,  and  quite  opened  her  heart  to  me.  She  was  very 
beautiful  and  sweet  and  gentle.  Of  course,  she  was 
still  her  strange  and  vigorous-minded  self,  but  there 
was  surrender  to  the  love  and  power  of  God,  and 
contrition  for  past  things.  I  must  not  tell  you  all  that 
she  said  to  me,  but  I  want  you  to  know  that  her  heart 
is  softened  and  that  she  now  feels  what  we  all  feel,  the 
necessity  for  surrendering  our  will  to  the  will  of  our 
Father,  and  humbling  ourselves  before  His  love  and 
mercy.  I  want  you  to  know  this,  because  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  to  help  her." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  resumed. 

"  She  would  not  return  with  me,  even  for  a  few  days. 
She  has  a  very  high  sense  of  her  duty  to  her  husband. 
Nothing  will  ever  make  her  leave  him.  It  is  in  her 
nature,  which  was  once  so  proud  and  masterful,  to  bear 
without  a  murmur  the  full  consequences  of  her  past. 
She  accepts  her  lot ;  she  will  bear  it  to  the  end.  But 

461 


The  Shadow 

I  saw  Conder  and  spoke  to  him  with  complete 
frankness.  He  is  one  of  those  men  who,  one  might 
almost  say,  are  beyond  the  reach  of  the  gentle  and  pure 
emotions  of  humanity.  A  hard  man  ;  an  uninstructed 
man.  Worst  deprivation  of  all,  a  man  without  the 
sense  of  humility.  All  I  could  do  with  him  was  this, 
to  get  his  promise  that  he  would  give  up  the  inn  if 
something  better  could  be  found  for  him.  By  '  better,' 
he  means  something  with  more  money  and  less  anxiety 
attached  to  it.  Louise  said  that  if  a  farm  could  be 
found  she  would  look  after  it.  Conder  said  he  would 
accept  a  farm.  Now,  Christopher,  is  it  possible,  is  it 
in  the  least  possible  that  your  uncle  might  help  us  ? 
My  dear  boy,  you  must  be  quite  frank  with  me.  If 
you  feel  any  scruple  about  asking  your  uncle,  you  must 
tell  me  so.  It  is  a  very  great  request  to  make,  and  I 
would  not  have  you  make  it  if  it  would  cause  you  the 
least  distress.  Tell  me,  quite  frankly,  what  you  think." 

"  I  cannot  ask  my  uncle,"  said  Christopher.  "  But 
perhaps  I  can  find  what  is  necessary.  It  would  give 
me  pleasure." 

The  old  man  took  his  hand  and  held  it  affectionately. 
"  I  would  not  ask  you,"  he  said,  "  if  she  was  not  my 
daughter,  and,  even  so,  if  I  was  not  sure  that  her  heart 
is  turned  to  God." 

Christopher  marvelled  at  the  magic  of  this  old  man 
who  had  turned  the  heart  of  that  hard  woman  of  the 
Hound  Inn. 

Two  days  afterwards  he  received  a  letter  from  the 
art  dealers  in  Paris.  The  Rose  Madonna  was  an 
immense  success.  They  offered  a  price  ^or  it  which 
staggered  him. 

462 


The  Light  Returns 

The  Madonna  he  had  painted  for  his  mother  had 
been  sold.  If  Louise  were  to  be  saved  it  was  necessary 
to  sell  the  Madonna  he  had  painted  for  Rose.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  fate  had  some  grudge  against  the 
pictures  he  had  painted  with  a  pure  object. 

He  spoke  to  Rose  before  he  said  anything  to  her 
father.  "Would  you  like  to  take  your  sister  out  of 
that  inn  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  you  know  I  would." 

They  had  scarcely  spoken  since  she  found  him 
standing  so  wretched  and  sad  in  the  studio.  Her 
heart  had  yearned  for  him.  She  had  tried  to  show 
him  how  much  she  cared  and  sorrowed  for  him,  but 
he  seemed  to  avoid  her.  Now  he  had  come  to  her 
again,  and  she  was  glad. 

"  If  you  like  to  sell  the  picture  I  gave  you,"  he  said, 
"  you  can  do  so  at  once.  I  bring  you  an  offer  for  it." 

"  But  it  is  your  money." 

"  No,  it  is  your  picture." 

"  You  are  wonderfully  generous,  but  unkind.  It 
would  be  better  to  say,  '  I  take  back  my  picture  to 
save  your  sister.' " 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  you  make  me  sell  what  you  have  given 
me." 

"  Do  you  mind  that  ?     It  is  for  a  good  cause." 

Her  eyes  appealed  to  him.  They  expressed  love 
and  kindness.  "  I  think  you  must  sell  it,"  she  said 
quietly. 

He  looked  away  from  her.  "  No,"  he  answered, 
speaking  apparently  without  feeling.  "  I  want  you  to 
be  able  to  write  to  your  sister  and  say, '  I  can  help 

463 


you.'  It  is  much  better  that  it  should  come  through 
you.  She  is  proud,  and  I  don't  think  she  likes  me. 
If  she  asks  how  you  are  able  to  send  so  much  money, 
you  can  say  that  you  sold  a  picture  which  was  worth 
more  than  you  thought." 

"  That  would  be  untrue." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  paint  another." 

"  Will  you  paint  another  ?  " 

"Of  you?" 

Their  eyes  encountered. 

"  Of  me,"  she  said. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  dare." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 

He  turned  away  from  her.  "  Well,  I  will  try.  Yes, 
it  will  be  a  test.  If  I  can  finish  it,  I  will  stay  here. 
If  not " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  will  go  away." 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  letting  her  love  shine  frankly 
in  her  eyes,  "  there  can  never  be  any  reason  why  you 
should  go  away  from  me.  No  !  Do  not  go  away." 

For  a  moment  it  was  as  if  he  would  go  to  her.  But 
he  suddenly  steadied  himself.  His  face  grew  hard. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  cloud  and  dull.  She  could  hear 
how  heavily  he  breathed. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  frightened  her — it 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  called  her  Rose — "  if  you 
knew  me  for  what  I  am,  you  would  drive  me  from 
you." 

Before  she  could  speak,  before  she  could  stretch  a 
hand  towards  him,  he  had  gone. 


464 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
AT  THE  BEACON 

FOR  a  week,  in  which  he  suffered  the  greatest 
distress,  Christopher  avoided  the  parsonage.  He 
had  come  to  a  crisis  in  his  life.  As  insistent  as 
his  memory  of  the  past  was  his  love  for  Rose.  He 
could  forget  neither  the  mother  whom  he  had  loved 
too  late  nor  the  beautiful  girl  whom  he  now  loved  in 
vain.  Always  he  would  be  haunted  by  the  memory 
of  his  great  sin  ;  always  he  would  be  haunted  by  the 
memory  of  his  love.  He  was  caught  between  two 
whirlwinds. 

He  perceived  that  the  hour  of  his  wandering  over 
the  earth  had  struck  again.  He  must  get  up  and  go 
forward  once  more,  eternally  without  rest,  like  that 

"...  Night- wandering  man  whose  heart  was  pierced 
With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong." 

For  to  stay  any  longer  near  the  woman  he  loved  was 
impossible.  If  he  stayed,  one  of  two  things  must 
assuredly  happen  ;  either  he  would  yield  to  tempta- 
tion, make  himself  what  he  was  not,  and  cheat  her 
into  marriage,  or  he  would  pour  out  the  story  of  his 
past,  fill  her  mind  with  horror  for  him,  and  lose  her 
kindness  with  her  love. 

465  2  H 


The  Shadow 

It  was  better  to  go  now,  to  leave  her  with  pleasant 
memories  of  him,  and  to  take  away  with  him  the  re- 
membrance of  her  gentle  eyes  and  loving  words. 

His  mind  was  almost  made  up  to  this  course  of 
action  when  a  letter  arrived  from  his  master  in  Paris, 
containing  several  excerpts  from  the  French  news- 
papers concerning  his  Rose  Madonna.  As  Christopher 
read  these  extracts,  and  read  the  noble  letter  of  his 
master,  his  pulses  quickened  and  he  tasted  the  cup  of 
happiness.  He  had  won  the  applause  of  the  first 
artists  in  Europe.  His  fame  was  assured.  He  had 
conquered. 

Then  there  rushed  in  upon  his  soul  the  aching  and 
desolating  thought  that  all  this  glory  and  all  this  wealth 
had  come  too  late.  They  belonged  to  his  mother,  and 
she  was  dead.  He  recalled — ah,  how  bitterly — all  the 
pure  and  innocent  aspirations  of  his  boyhood,  when  he 
had  dreamed  of  making  her  so  happy  and  so  proud 
with  his  success.  It  was  too  late.  She  had  toiled  and 
struggled  for  him  almost  to  the  end  of  her  days,  she 
had  never  known  comfort,  she  had  never  received  the 
reward  of  her  love.  And  now  she  was  beyond  know- 
ledge of  him. 

As  he  thought  of  her,  the  wonderful  past  came 
thronging  about  his  soul,  the  past  wonderful  and 
sacred  with  her  love.  He  remembered  wet  and 
miserable  mornings  on  which  he  had  stood  at  the 
window  in  Trinity  Street  and  waved  to  her  as  she 
lifted  her  umbrella  to  look  at  him,  with  a  smile  of  fare- 
well, going  on  through  the  rain  and  the  mire  to  earn 
their  daily  bread  in  the  London  across  the  Thames. 
He  remembered  how  loving  and  tender  she  had  been 

466 


At  the   Beacon 

when  he  lay  at  death's  door  in  that  miserable  garret. 
He  remembered  what  great  pains  she  had  taken  to 
make  the  flowers  flourish  on  the  ledge  of  the  window, 
and  how  she  had  always  laboured  before  she  went 
so  early  to  her  work,  to  leave  the  eyry  clean,  comfort- 
able, and  bright  for  him.  He  could  recall  not  one 
instance  in  which  she  had  complained  of  hardship, 
expressed  a  bitter  thought,  or  even  said  that  she  was 
tired.  Her  memory  was  a  shining  and  holy  memory 
of  service  and  love.  It  was  the  perfectest  thing  he 
had  ever  known.  And,  God  help  him — he  had  slain 
her.  All  her  service,  all  her  love,  he  had  rewarded 
by  an  action  so  horrible  that  she  had  sunk  under 
it,  and  died  of  a  broken  heart.  A  broken  heart! 
And  the  noblest  heart  that  ever  beat  with  love.  God 
help  him — God  help  him,  he  himself  had  broken  his 
mother's  heart. 

Was  it  the  pure  memory  of  her  love,  or  the  bitter 
disappointment  of  achieving  fame  too  late,  that  made 
him  suddenly  cover  his  face  with  his  hands  and  burst 
into  tears  ? 

He  who  wrote  that  "  all  men  kill  the  thing  they 
love,"  cried  also  : 

"  Ah  !   happy  they  whose  hearts  can  break 

And  peace  of  pardon  win  ! 
How  else  may  man   make  straight  his  place 

And  cleanse  his  soul  from  sin  ? 
How  else  but  thro'  a  broken  heart, 

May  Lord  Christ  enter  in  ? " 

Christopher's  heart  was  not  broken.  He  drew  his 
hands  from  his  face,  started  up,  and  began  to  pace 
the  room,  muttering  bitter  and  angry  curses  in  a 

467  2    H   2 


low  voice,  while  the  tears  dried  on  his  cheeks  and  his 
breath  broke  and  broke  again  in  sobs  beyond  his 
control.  He  cursed  Isabel  Grafton,  he  cursed  the 
man  who  had  tutored  him,  he  cursed  Paris,  he  cursed 
his  fellow-students — he  cursed  every  one  and  every- 
thing that  had  corrupted  his  innocence  and  come 
between  his  soul  and  his  mother's  love.  Why  did 
not  someone  say  to  his  young  mind,  shaking  it 
vehemently  and  arousing  it  from  the  delirium  of 
youth — "  Your  mother  will  die  ;  love  her  before  it  is 
too  late  ;  nevermore  will  you  know  a  love  like  this  "  ? 
Why  was  he  not  warned  ?  Why  had  the  world  let 
him  rush  into  that  calamity  which  had  shattered  his 
peace  and  brought  the  pillars  of  his  life  about  his  head  ? 
Could  no  one  have  spoken  ?  Isabel  Grafton  had  said 
nothing.  His  tutor  had  said  nothing.  No  one  had 
uttered  a  single  word  to  make  him  realise  in  those 
wild  and  headlong  days  the  precious  inexpressible 
gift  of  his  mother's  love.  He  had  walked  in  his 
sleep.  It  was  death  who  awaked  him. 

And  now  it  was  too  late  to  cry  to  her,  to  lay  his 
fame  at  her  feet,  to  cover  her  with  blessings  and 
reward.  Too  late.  "  O  God,  why  is  it  too  late  ? " 
he  cried,  and  beat  his  breast  and  ground  his  teeth. 

"  Look  in  my  face  :  my  name  is  Might-have-been ; 
I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 
Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead  sea-shell 
Cast  up  thy  life's  foam-fretted  feet  between. 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 
Which    had   Life's  form,   and   Love's,  but  by  my 

spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 
468 


At  the   Beacon 

Mark  me  how  still    I  am  !      But  should   there  dart 
One  moment  thro'  thy  soul  the  soft  surprise 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath 

with  sighs 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart, 
Sleepless  with  cold,  commemorative  eyes." 

He  suffered  such  agony  of  mind  as  cannot  be 
written,  and  was  driven  for  a  terrible  hour  solemnly 
to  debate  with  himself  the  thought  of  self-destruction. 
Never  before,  as  in  this  time  of  his  wealth,  had  he 
apprehended  the  depth  and  blackness  of  his  desola- 
tion, the  frightful  loneliness  and  ruin  of  his  life.  If 
his  heart  did  not  break,  it  was  only  because  his  gaze 
was  there,  and  not  turned  to  the  eyes  of  Divine  Pity 
and  Immortal  Love. 

When  the  end  of  this  week  came  and  Sunday  shone 
into  his  window,  he  was  quiet  and  resigned  to  the 
burden  of  his  sorrow  He  rose  to  a  new  week  with 
a  new  determination  in  his  heart.  He  would  go  down 
to  the  little  church,  ring  the  bell  for  the  last  time, 
listen  to  John  Kindred's  voice  for  the  last  time,  for 
the  last  time  look  into  the  eyes  of  Rose,  drink  deep 
of  her  young  and  happy  beauty,  and  then  he  would 
turn  away  from  this  rural  peace,  where  he  had  neither 
right  nor  lot,  and  go  back  to  the  world  where  he 
could  be  at  ease.  He  would  go  to  Paris.  He  would 
live  close  to  his  old  master.  In  the  kingdom  of  art 
he  would  lose  his  soul  and  forget  the  world  that  is 
and  the  world  that  is  to  be. 

Such  was  the  fixed  and  quiet  purpose  of  his  heart 
when  he  arrived  early  at  the  church.  A  few  old 
peasants  were  standing  at  the  lych-gate.  Two  little 

469 


The  Shadow 

children  were  going  up  the  path,  hand-in-hand,  with 
flowers  for  the  grave  of  a  dead  sister.  At  the  open 
door  of  the  tower,  Rose  was  standing  watching  the 
children.  The  rope  was  unfastened  from  the  wall ; 
evidently  she  was  there  to  ring  the  bell. 

She  stared  at  sight  of  him. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back,"  she  said  quietly, 
as  he  reached  her  side.  For  a  moment  she  looked 
at  him,  then  saying,  "  You  will  ring  the  bell,  won't 
you  ? "  she  moved  away  and  went  to  the  children 
with  the  flowers. 

The  service  that  morning  made  a  tender  impression 
on  the  heart  of  Christopher.  Perhaps  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  hearing  it  for  the  last  time  was  responsible 
for  this  effect.  He  thought  the  voice  of  John  Kindred 
had  never  sounded  so  sweetly.  The  words  of  the 
prayers  seemed  to  be  full  of  a  living  significance. 
He  found  himself  reflecting  upon  them.  When  the 
collect  sounded  in  his  ears  he  envied  the  happiness 
of  those  who  could  breathe  that  petition  into  the 
vastness  of  Infinity — 

"  Grant,  we  beseech  Thee,  merciful  Lord,  to  Thy  faithful 
people  pardon  and  peace,  that  they  may  be  cleansed  from 
all  their  sins,  and  serve  Thee  with  a  quiet  mind,  through 
Jesus  Christ  our  Lord." 

A  quiet  mind !  What  a  gift  to  ask  so  simply 
and  trustingly  of  the  awful  and  dread  Power,  the 
high  and  lofty  One  inhabiting  eternity  !  "  Cleansed 
from  all  their  sins  " — by  what  magic  could  the  memory 
be  cleansed  of  indelible  mockery,  and  the  irremedi- 
able ruin  wrought  by  sin  be  made  to  stand  upright  ? 
Ah,  how  could  the  shaken  shadow  intolerable  become 

470 


At  the   Beacon 

again  Life's  form  and  Love's  ?  By  prayer  ?  By 
whispering  soft  words  into  the  silent  air  ?  Alas,  these 
simple  people  did  not  know  what  they  asked.  The 
dead  do  not  return. 

In  the  Gospel  three  times  came  the  words,  "  Thy 
son  liveth." 

Christopher  felt  with  each  repetition  some  strange 
and  personal  implication  in  these  words.  When  John 
Kindred  gave  them  out  as  his  text,  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  pulpit  and  looked  at  the  beautiful  faded 
countenance  of  the  preacher,  wondering. 

The  hour  of  illumination  was  at  hand. 

"  If  any  of  you,  my  dear  people,  being  a  father 
or  a  mother,"  began  the  preacher,  speaking  in  the 
gentle  and  natural  tone  of  conversation,  "have  ever 
watched  with  anxiety  over  the  sick  bed  of  a  child, 
and  waited  through  the  crisis  of  the  disease  for  the 
knowledge  of  God's  will  with  that  life  so  precious 
to  you,  you  will  know  what  joy  is  contained  in  the 
sure  and  certain  affirmation,  Thy  son  liveth.  You 
will  understand  the  relief  of  such  words,  the  deliverance 
which  they  bring,  the  great  tide  of  thankfulness  which 
they  send  through  the  heart. 

"  Sin  is  not  only  a  disease,  it  is  a  death.  If  any 
of  you,  having  children  who  live  in  sin,  could  hear 
news  brought  to  you  this  day  that  they  had  turned 
from  that  sin  and  were  leading  pure  and  noble  lives, 
would  you  not  rejoice,  would  you  not  feel  that  your 
child  had  been  raised  from  the  dead,  and  that  the 
message  brought  to  you  was  this  great  good  tiding?, 
Thy  son  liveth  ? 

"  Now,  as  it  is  with  you  and  with  me,  so  it  is  with 
471 


The  Shadow 

our  heavenly  Father.  As  we  sorrow  for  children 
whose  hearts  are  hardened  against  us,  so  He  sorrows 
when  we  harden  our  hearts  against  His  divine  love. 
And  as  we  rejoice  when  their  hearts  soften,  and  when 
they  yield  to  us  their  full  affections,  so  even  our 
heavenly  Father  rejoices  when  we  turn  away  from 
our  sins  and  our  darkness,  and  cry  to  Him  for 
His  love  and  forgiveness. 

"  I  want  you  to  feel  assured  that  when  the  angel- 
messenger — as  we  may  suppose  the  picture — stands 
before  God  with  tidings  of  some  poor  wandering  soul 
on  this  earth,  and  says  to  our  Father,  Thy  son  liveth, 
there  is  in  the  bosom  of  God  a  joy  such  as  a  human 
parent  would  feel,  a  great  tide  of  happiness,  and 
heaven  is  filled  with  a  fresh  thanksgiving. 

"  If  you  do  not  realise  that  earthly  repentance 
make  happiness  in  heaven,  you  will  never  understand 
the  truth  of  God  nor  the  lovely  meaning  of  sorrow 
for  sin. 

"  There  are  two  utterances  of  our  Saviour  which 
seem  to  me  almost  the  most  wonderful  words  that 
even  He  ever  spoke.  They  are  words  frequently 
used,  but  I  wonder  if  they  are  often  understood. 
Let  me  repeat  them  very  slowly,  and  you  listen  to 
them  with  humility  and  awe  and  love,  remembering 
that  it  is  the  great  God  revealing  to  you  the  mystery 
of  existence. . 

"  Jesus  said,  *  Joy  shall  be  in  heaven  over  one  sinner 
that  repentetk.'  And  again  He  said,  '  /  say  unto  you, 
there  is  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  angels  of  God  over 
one  sinner  that  repentetk.' 

"  Why  are  these  words  so  wonderful  ? 
472 


At  the  Beacon 

"  Think  for  a  moment  what  heaven  is  ;  it  is  the 
abode  of  eternal  happiness.  Its  light  is  the  presence 
of  God  Himself,  even  the  Father.  Its  joy  is  the 
highest  joy  possible  in  the  whole  infinite  universe.  It 
is  the  final  attainment,  so  we  may  put  it,  of  an 
infinite  and  almighty  Power  delighting  Himself  in  the 
creation  of  beautiful  forms,  and  rejoicing  Himself  in 
giving  happiness  to  those  whom  He  loves.  We  cannot 
conceive  of  the  happiness  of  heaven.  Sometimes,  for 
a  moment  that  must  not  lengthen  lest  we  die  under 
the  vision,  a  fragment  of  that  unimaginable  joy  is 
revealed  to  our  human  senses  ;  but  nothing  that  we 
can  think,  nothing  that  we  can  dream,  ever  gives  us 
the  very  faintest  idea  of  the  bliss  of  heaven.  One  to 
whom  a  great  vision  had  been  vouchsafed,  perhaps  the 
greatest  man  that  ever  lived,  endorsed  these  words, 
'  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  neither  have  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man,  the  things  which  God  hath 
prepared  for  them  that  love  Him.'  Such  is  heaven.  A 
place  and  a  state  of  being  so  happy,  so  beautiful,  so 
radiant  with  joy,  that  he  who  thinks  often  and  long 
about  it,  must  find  himself  yearning  for  its  glory.  And 
for  all  mankind,  the  humblest  and  least  inclined  to 
dream,  heaven  is  the  idea  of  the  greatest  and  highest 
happiness.  We  say  that  heaven  is  everything  beautiful 
and  glad  and  perfect.  We  speak  of  it  as  the  great 
Perfection.  We  can  imagine  nothing  more  beautiful 
or  more  happy. 

"  Well,  is  it  not  wonderful  that  we  on  this  earth  can 
increase  the  happiness  of  that  happy  heaven  ?  There 
is  joy  in  the  presence  of  the  angels  of  God  over  one 
sinner  that  repenteth.  We  add  to  God's  happiness. 

473 


The  Shadow 

God  Himself  tells  us  so.  He  loves  the  world — so 
loves  it,  that  He  gave  His  only  begotten  Son.  And 
in  the  midst  of  the  happiness  of  heaven,  He  yearns 
like  a  father  over  the  earth,  even  as  Christ  wept  over 
Jerusalem.  That  is  why  these  words  of  Christ  our 
Saviour  are  so  wonderful.  They  reveal  to  us  that  we 
on  earth  can  add  to  the  joy  of  God.  Our  lives  actually 
touch  the  life  of  the  Almighty. 

"  What  then,  my  dear  people,  is  the  meaning  of 
repentance  ?  It  is  the  condition  of  the  human  heart 
desired  by  our  heavenly  Father,  only  that  He  may 
make  us  happy.  Do  not  think  of  repentance  as  an 
effort  of  man  himself  to  escape  the  indignation  and 
wrath  of  God.  That  would  not  add  to  the  joy  of 
heaven.  No,  sorrow  for  sin  is  something  divine. 
Listen,  I  will  tell  you.  Penitence  is  the  soul's  sub- 
mission to  love.  Penitence  only  comes  when  we  realise 
love.  To  love,  and  to  love  alone,  does  penitence 
belong,  and  it  can  be  born  of  nothing  else  but  love. 

"You  may  be  sorry  for  your  sins  without  being 
penitent.  You  may  turn  away  from  sin  and  live  a 
perfectly  moral  life,  without  being  penitent.  The 
remorse  of  Judas  Iscariot  was  not  penitence.  Penitence 
comes  into  the  heart  only  when  we  realise  with  how 
great  a  love  the  Father  loves  us.  It  is  not  an  unhappy 
and  distressful  state  of  the  heart.  It  is  liberation  ;  it  is 
freedom  ;  it  is  love.  We  become  penitent  when  we 
feel,  with  the  love  of  God  shining  into  our  darkness, 
our  love  going  out  to  Him  in  a  hunger  and  thirst 
after  His  perfection.  That  is  penitence.  That  is  the 
true  repentance  which  cleanses  from  all  sin  and  frees 
the  soul  to  serve  God  with  a  quiet  mind  and  a  rejoicing 

474 


At  the   Beacon 

spirit  You  will  never  be  truly  penitent  until  you 
know  more  certainly  than  anything  else  in  life,  that 
God  desires  your  penitence  only  in  order  to  make  you 
happy,  and  that  your  true  repentance  adds  to  the  joy 
of  heaven. 

"  I  remember  hearing  in  my  childhood  a  story  that 
will  help  you  to  realise  how  our  lives  here  on  earth 
affect  the  joy  of  heaven.  A  poor  mother,  whose  heart 
was  broken  by  the  death  of  her  child,  dreamed  one 
night  that  she  stood  in  Paradise  and  saw  the  happiness 
of  the  angels.  Children  were  in  those  fields  of  light, 
moving  in  a  shining  host  towards  greater  and  greater 
glory,  their  radiant  faces  raised,  their  eyes  sparkling 
with  happiness,  their  lips  moving  in  a  chant  of  praise, 
their  hands  holding  a  torch  which  increased  even  the 
sublime  light  of  that  happy  place.  As  the  mother 
looked  upon  this  host,  she  suddenly  saw  her  own  little 
child,  standing  sad  and  dejected  outside  the  happy 
throng,  the  torch  held  downward,  and  the  flame 
extinguished.  '  My  darling,'  she  exclaimed,  '  why 
are  you  not  happy  like  the  others?'  'Oh,  mother, 
mother ! '  cried  the  child,  '  your  tears  have  put  out  my 
torch.' 

"  Dear  people,  in  that  glorious  and  happy  heaven 
above  us,  most  of  you  have  someone  who  once  loved 
you  on  earth.  Have  you  ever  thought  how  your  life 
may  add  to  or  sadden  their  happiness  ?  Do  you  think 
they  can  be  perfectly  happy  if  they  know  that  you 
are  living  in  sin,  or  that  you  are  living  with  hard 
hearts  turned  away  from  the  merciful  love  of  God  ? 
Perhaps  you  were  not  as  loving  and  dutiful  to  those 
dear  ones  when  they  were  on  earth  as  you  might  have 

475 


The  Shadow 

been,  as  you  now  wish  you  had  been.  Will  you  still 
pain  them  ?  Will  you  still  make  them  unhappy  ? 

"  Think,  they  see  you  and  know  the  'thoughts  in 
your  heart.  These  angels  in  the  presence  of  God  wait 
for  their  joy  to  be  perfected  by  your  true  penitence. 
You  can  make  them  so  happy  by  making  yourselves 
happy  in  the  only  way  God's  children  can  be  happy — 
by  stretching  out  your  arms  to  heaven  and  desiring 
the  love  of  your  heavenly  Father. 

"  You  all,  every  one  of  you,  know  that  some  day 
you  must  die.  Do  you  want  to  go  into  the  next 
world  without  the  love  of  God  ?  Do  you  think  you 
can  be  happy  there  without  His  love  ?  You  cannot 
think  that  ?  What,  then  ;  will  you  go  into  eternity 
cold  and  indifferent  to  that  love,  trusting  that  God 
will  deal  mercifully  with  you  ?  Is  it  not  better  that 
we  should  all  look  forward  to  heaven  with  a  great 
joy — seeing  that  none  of  us  can  escape  death — and 
that  we  should  have  our  hearts  filled  with  the  desire 
to  behold  the  glory  of  God,  and  to  see  upon  the  faces 
of  our  dear  ones  the  shining  light  of  happiness  and 
joy  ?  Oh,  surely,  it  is  a  foolish  thing  to  live  as  if  there 
was  no  eternity ;  a  cruel  thing  to  live  lives  which 
distress  our  angels  in  heaven  ;  and  an  act  of  madness 
beyond  imagination  to  refuse,  to  reject,  the  great  gift 
of  God's  love  which  He  makes  to  us  so  tenderly  and 
so  mercifully  with  the  assurance  that  joy  shall  be  in 
heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth. 

"  Think,  you  who  have  mothers  in  heaven,  you  for 
whom  those  mothers  toiled  and  laboured  and  loved, 
think  what  joy  you  can  send  even  from  earth  into 
their  hearts,  by  the  message  of  your  souls,  thy  son  liveth. 

476 


At  the   Beacon 

"  Would  you  keep  them  sad  and  sorrowful  ?  Would 
you  not  rather  endeavour  to  send  your  gratitude  into 
the  infinite  in  the  only  way  in  which  it  can  reach 
them — by  loving  God  ?  Would  you  not  rather  increase 
their  joy  and  felicity  by  embracing  God's  wonderful 
mercy  and  goodness,  and  by  setting  yourselves  to  live 
as  He  has  asked  you  to  live — for  your  own  happiness  ? 
Surely  you  will  do  this  ? 

"  It  only  needs  that  you  should  turn  your  eyes  from 
your  own  hearts,  and  raise  them  to  the  Cross  of  your 
Saviour  and  Redeemer.  Accustom  yourselves  every 
day  to  contemplate  that  Saviour,  to  consider  why  He 
hangs  there,  and  try  to  imagine  constantly,  constantly, 
until  it  is  a  habit  of  your  brain,  what  the  love  of  God 
must  be.  You  will  find  that  the  more  you  think  of 
God,  the  less  you  will  think  of  yourselves  and  your 
unhappiness  ;  and  so,  escaping  from  yourselves  and 
rising  to  Him,  you  will  be  filled  with  such  adoration 
and  hungering  love  that  penitence  will  cleanse  you 
from  all  your  sin,  and  the  place  in  your  heart  hitherto 
occupied  by  selfishness  or  sad  and  bitter  memories, 
will  be  filled — aye,  filled  to  the  overflowing,  by  love 
for  your  Father  in  heaven  and  by  anticipation  of  the 
joy  He  has  prepared  for  you. 

"  This,  then,  is  the  thought  I  would  leave  in  your 
hearts — that  penitence  for  sin  adds  to  the  joy  of 
heaven,  and  is  not  true  penitence  unless  it  delivers  you 
from  the  burden  of  remorse  and  makes  you  happy, 
And  I  ask  you,  when  the  pressure  of  the  world  and  its 
cares  are  hard  upon  you,  when  you  feel  that  God 
cannot  possibly  love  you,  when  you  seem  to  flag  and 
droop  and  lose  even  your  desire  for  eternal  happiness, 

477 


The  Shadow 

to  think  first  of  those  who  are  waiting  for  you  in 
heaven,  and  then  of  that  all-loving  Father  Who,  when 
one  of  the  least  of  His  children  is  sorry  for  sin,  bows 
His  great  love  to  complete  the  work  of  penitence. 
'  When  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his  father  saw  him, 
and  had  compassion,  and  ran,  and  fell  on  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him.' 

"  Why  was  that  father  looking  out  for  his  son  ? 
Why  did  he  see  him  '  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way 
off'?  Because,  dear  people,  the  love  in  the  father's 
heart,  at  the  first  step  of  the  child,  cried  out  with  a 
glad  voice,  '  Thy  son  liveth.'  .  .  .  ." 

Christopher  walked  quickly  down  the  path  of  the 
churchyard,  and  without  going  either  to  the  parsonage 
or  to  his  own  rooms,  made  his  way  into  the  fields  and 
up  towards  the  mountains. 

He  was  conscious  of  some  extraordinary  lightness. 

As  he  went,  walking  swiftly  up  the  green  side  of 
Raven's  Scar,  feeling  the  cool  wind  in  his  face  and 
rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  the  day,  he  began  to 
wonder  why  he  was  so  happy. 

He  could  not  explain  what  had  happened  to  him. 

He  only  knew  that  as  the  simple,  slowly  spoken 
words  of  the  sermon  fell  upon  his  soul  he  was  aware 
of  some  quite  quiet  and  inward  illumination.  His  life 
seemed  to  shine  within  him.  The  great  darkness 
which  had  gathered  melted  away.  It  was  wonderful, 
this  consciousness  of  a  bright  light  within  himself,  like 
a  lamp  in  the  brain. 

And  now  there  was  that  delicious  feeling  in  his 
limbs  of  lightness  and  power,  so  that  he  climbed  the 
mountain  without  effort.  He  said  aloud,  in  a  glad 

4/8 


At  the   Beacon 

voice,  "They  shall  mount  up  with  wings  like  eagles, 
they  shall  run  and  not  be  weary,  they  shall  walk  and 
not  faint." 

What  was  that  verse  which  haunted  him  ?  What 
were  the  lines  from  one  of  the  poets  that  described 
such  an  hour  as  this  ?  Ah,  he  remembered — 

"  No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 
Blest  hour  !     It  was  a  luxury — to  be  !  " 

He  reached  the  head  of  the  mountain,  avoided  the 
path  leading  to  the  shepherd's  hut,  and  continued  his 
rejoicing  way. 

He  had  descended  on  the  further  side  and  had  begun 
the  ascent  of  Toom  Fell,  before  he  set  himself  for  the 
first  time  on  this  walk  to  decide  definitely  what  had 
happened  to  him. 

His  burden  was  gone.  But  when  did  it  fall  from 
him  ?  He  could  not  tell.  Had  he  unconsciously 
surrendered  himself  to  God's  mercy  ?  He  dare 
not  say. 

What  had  happened  to  him  then  ? 

Oh,  first  and  chief  of  all  emotions  in  his  heart  was 
a  wonderful  sense  of  joy  at  the  thought  that  he  could 
add  to  the  happiness  of  his  mother  in  Paradise.  Was 
it  true  ?  Was  it  indeed  true  that  the  great  holy  dead 
can  be  moved  by  the  thoughts  of  love  from  human 
hearts  ?  Yes,  for  He  who  is  called  Light  of  the 
World  had  said,  There  is  joy  in  the  presence  of  the 
angels  of  God  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth  ! 

"  Be  near  us  when  we  rise  or  fall, 

Like  gods  ye  watch  the  rolling  hours, 
With  larger,  other  eyes  than  ours 
To  make  allowance  for  us  all." 

479 


The  Shadow 

And  then  there  had  followed — yes,  that  was  when 
the  light  had  burned  in  his  soul — there  had  followed 
the  thought  that  penitence  is  a  state  of  joy,  a  state 
of  the  heart  asked  by  God  only  that  He  may  reveal 
His  love.  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  that  before  ? 
What  was  it  in  his  life  that  had  prepared  his  soul  at 
last  for  this  long-delayed  and  glorious  illumination  ? 
Penitence  !  A  state  of  happiness,  a  condition  of  joy  ! 
Yes,  for  otherwise  why  should  God  demand  it  ?  God 
is  Love. 

He  saw  at  that  moment  how  he  had  come  at  last  to 
receive  this  gracious  knowledge.  It  was  the  silent 
influence  of  the  old  clergyman — the  sweet  gentle  saint 
of  God,  whose  whole  life  was  a  longing  for  heaven. 

The  secret  lay  there — a  longing  for  heaven.  What 
did  that  longing  embrace  ?  It  embraced  everything, 
for  it  was  the  love  of  God.  "The  love  of  heaven 
makes  one  heavenly." 

He  saw  now  clearly  what  had  happened  to  him. 

Ever  since  he  arrived  in  this  quiet  place  the  influence 
of  the  old  minister  had  been  falling  upon  his  hard 
heart  like  a  gentle  rain  from  heaven.  He  had 
gradually,  very  gradually,  lost  the  idea  of  God's 
wrath  and  indignation  against  him.  He  had  come 
gradually,  very  gradually,  to  think  of  eternity  as  a 
place  and  state  of  being  to  which  the  saints  look 
forward  with  intensest  joy.  The  whole  miracle  of  his 
conversion,  his  illumination,  had  its  origin  in  the  old 
minister's  longing  for  heaven.  He  had  met  a  man 
whose  soul  was  continually  anticipating  the  happiness 
and  joy  of  heaven  as  a  man  to  whom  that  happiness 
and  joy  were  most  real  and  certain.  Unconsciously 

480 


At  the    Beacon 

the  influence  of  this  heavenly-minded  man  had  fallen 
upon  his  soul.  He  had  not  realised  until  this  moment 
how  rare  it  is  to  find  even  among  the  righteous  and 
the  virtuous,  one  who  truly  and  earnestly  desires  the 
merciful  cup  of  death,  whose  life  was  an  intense  longing 
to  behold  the  glory  of  God. 

This  was  the  origin  of  his  illumination. 
A  perpetual  contemplation  of  heaven,  continual 
meditation  on  its  celestial  bliss,  which  God  has  pre- 
pared for  them  that  love  Him — this  habit  had  given  a 
grace  of  such  exquisite  beauty  to  the  soul  of  the  old 
minister  that  flowing  out  from  him  it  had  melted  even 
a  heart  which  remorse  had  blackened  and  despair  had 
turned  to  stone. 

Did  that  old  man  know  what  he  had  done  ? 
Christopher  saw  truly  the  origin  of  his  illumination. 
He  did  not  dare  to  go  forward  and  handle  what  had 
followed.  But  he  acknowledged  out  of  a  flowing  heart 
the  mercy  and  love  of  God,  knowing  that  it  was  Christ 
and  Christ  alone  Who  had  made  John  Kindred  able  to 
save  him. 

He  lifted  his  face  to  the  blue  sky  as  he  crossed  the 
great  summit  of  Toom  Fell,  and  whispered  his  mother's 
name  into  the  calm  heavens. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  he  said  aloud,  "  I  am  happy  now ; 
you  must  be  happy  too." 

He  remembered  what  John  Kindred  had  said,  "  Turn 
your  eyes  from  your  own  hearts  and  raise  them  to  the 
Cross  of  your  Saviour  and  Redeemer." 

As  the  memory  of  these  words  came  to  him,  he 
thought  of  those  other  words  on  the  wall  of  his  studio 
— "  I  the  Lord  am  thy  Saviour  and  Redeemer." 

481  *  I 


The  Shadow 

And  those  other  words — "  Christ  shall  give  thee 
light." 

And  now  he  felt  and  knew  and  acknowledged  the 
full  mercy  of  his  illumination.  His  eyes  had  been 
drawn  away  from  gazing  sullenly  upon  the  blackness 
of  his  own  heart,  they  had  been  raised  to  survey  with 
wonder  and  adoration  the  Light  of  the  World.  From 
thence  had  streamed  light  into  his  soul,  from  the  vision 
of  Love  crucified.  In  that  moment  of  realisation — 
realisation  that  the  love  of  God  had  taken  away  the 
sins  of  the  whole  world — he  had  lost  the  sense  of 
burden  on  his  soul,  staggered  and  dazed  by  the  revela- 
tion of  such  wondrous  love. 

A  memory  of  his  boyhood  came  to  him.  He 
recalled  the  first  evening  in  Merrick  Square,  and  old 
Mr.  Grindley's  reading  of  the  great  chapter  of  St.  Luke, 
and  his  solemn  pronouncement  as  he  closed  the  big 
family  Bible  that  the  greatest  of  words  are  these,  "  The 
Son  of  Man  hath  come  to  save  that  which  was  lost." 

He    went    forward,   saying    to   himself,    "  O    God, 
have  mercy  on  my  soul !       Help   me   to  understand 
Thy  love.     Quicken  all  the  faculties  of  my  being  that 
I    may   know   more  and    more   of  Thy  love.     Shine 
upon  my  darkness,  give  me  evermore  Thy  light  that 
I  may  know  Thy  love." 
Ahead  of  him  he  saw  the  beacon. 
No   longer  did  he  dread  the  sentence  of  excom- 
munication. 

Indeed,  some  instinct  of  his  liberated  nature  had 
urged  him  to  this  place  which  he  had  never  visited 
since  the  first  night  of  his  coming ;  he  wanted  to  test 
nis  soul  before  those  awful  words. 

482 


At  the   Beacon 

He  walked  boldly  forward,  blessing  God's  name,  like 
a  man  exalted. 

As  he  drew  nearer  he  marked  the  place  where 
letters  were  cut  into  the  stone. 

For  a  moment  it  flashed  across  his  mind  that  there 
is  one  unpardonable  sin.  In  spite  of  remorse  and 
repentance,  some  spirits  will  hear  that  awful  sentence, 
" Discedite  Maledicti" 

He  was  shaken ;  for  a  moment  his  soul  was 
plunged  in  twilight. 

Then  suddenly  the  words  carved  in  the  stone 
sprang  to  his  eyes — 

VENITE  BENEDICITI. 

Not  the  curse,  but  the  blessing  !  Not  Depart,  but 
Come  !  Not  Ye  Cursed,  but  Ye  Blessed  ! 

His  heart  began  to  beat  fast  and  he  stood  and 
gazed,  bewildered  and  frightened  by  what  seemed  a 
miracle. 

Then  it  came  to  him  that  he  had  approached  the 
beacon  from  another  side. 

He  stood  before  the  words,  repeating  them  slowly, 
"  Venite  Benediciti"  knowing  that  on  the  other  side 
of  the  rock  was  " Discedite  Maledicti" 

His  penitence  was  completed  as  he  stood  before 
these  words  of  unexpected  blessing.  Tears  rushed 
into  his  eyes,  his  heart  seemed  to  break,  and  he  cried, 
"  Oh,  mother,  God  has  forgiven  me,  you  have  forgiven 
me,  and  now  at  last  it  is  pardon  and  peace." 

»  *  *  *  * 

483  212 


The  Shadow 

When  he  descended  to  the  valley  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

He  was  within  a  hundred  yards  of  his  lodging,  a 
deep  peace  possessing  him,  when  he  saw  the  French 
priest  come  from  the  gate  of  the  farm  house  and 
pass  up  the  road. 

He  started,  wondering  what  had  causedjthis  visit. 


484 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
WHEN  HE  WAS  YET_A  GREAT  WAY  OFF 

WHEN  Christopher  entered  his  room,  the  first 
thing  he  saw  was  a  letter  lying  on  the  table. 
In  the  gloom  of  the  low-ceiled  and  heavily  furnished 
apartment  this  letter  attracted  the  gaze.  He  took  it 
up,  carried  it  to  the  window,  and  examined  the  hand- 
writing on  the  envelope. 

It  was  addressed  to  him.  The  writing  was  a 
French  hand.  On  the  back  of  the  envelope  was  a 
coat-of-arms. 

He  felt  aware  of  some  menace  in  this  letter. 

He  remembered  his  altercation  with  the  Comte  de 
Lyons,  and  he  supposed  that  this  letter  came  from 
him,  delivered  by  the  priest.  The  idea  led  him  to 
think  of  Rose.  He  opened  the  envelope  and  drew 
out  the  letter. 

In  the  centre  of  the  paper  was  pasted  a  cutting 
from  a  French  newspaper.  Above  it  was  written, 
"  Monsieur,  I  think  it  fair  to  tell  you  that  I  have  left 
at  Penraven  Parsonage  a  similar  cutting  to  this 
which  follows  beneath."  And  at  the  bottom  was 
written,  "Whether  the  English  clerygman  of  Pen- 
raven  thinks  it  right  to  permit  his  daughter  to 
associate  with  such  a  man  is  a  matter  about  which  I 

485 


The  Shadow 

am  indifferent,  but  as  a  Catholic  priest  I  have 
requested  him  to  prevent  you  from  reading  the  lessons 
in  his  church,  and  it  is  of  this  request  that  I  think 
it  fair  to  warn  you."  It  was  signed  with  the  name 
of  the  chaplain  to  the  Comte  de  Lyons. 

Christopher  read  the  handwriting  before  he  looked 
at  the  print.  His  eyes,  which  had  been  bright  and 
calm  as  he  came  down  from  the  mountain,  rested  on 
the  sheet  of  paper  with  a  great  darkness  in  their 
depths,  a  frown  drawing  the  brows  together.  His  face 
was  pale.  There  was  in  his  lips  an  expression  of 
quiet  pain.  He  stood  at  the  window,  in  the  falling 
light  of  the  afternoon,  holding  the  letter  in  a  still 
hand  and  looking  at  the  handwriting,  not  at  the 
print. 

Then  he  said  to  himself,  "  This  is  the  end,"  and 
lifted  the  paper  nearer  to  his  eyes,  and  read. 

The  cutting  was  headed  "  The  Grafton  Madonna," 
and  began  by  referring  to  the  now  famous  picture 
and  the  price  which  had  been  paid  for  it.  "  The  young 
English  painter,"  it  continued  "  has  had  experience  of 
the  interior  of  a  French  prison,  and  no  doubt  in  his 
violon  meditated  many  a  fine  religious  picture  destined 
to  delight  the  Clericals.  The  story  is  worth  repeating, 
as  the  name  of  Christopher  Grafton  is  now  so  associated 
with  that  of  the  Madonna,  that  religious  people 
throughout  Europe  speak  with  becoming  reverence 
of  Grafton  Madonnas.  No  doubt  they  will  be  glad  to 
know  how  devoted  Monsieur  Grafton  is  to  his 
subject."  Then  followed  a  story  of  the  ball  of  the 
Quatre  <4  rfs,  greatly  exaggerated,  an  account  of  the 
scene  in  the  streets  at  dawn,  with  the  conclusion,  "  For 

486 


A  Great  Way  Off 

this  devotion  Monsieur  Grafton  paid  a  fine  of  two 
hundred  francs  and  endured  thirty  days  in  prison." 

It  was  made  as  horrible  as  it  could  be,  so  horrible 
that  Christopher  hated  himself  again,  and  felt,  as  he 
came  to  the  end,  giddy  and  sick  with  self-loathing. 

He  had  said  to  himself,  as  he  descended  the 
mountain,  "Ought  I  to  tell  her,  ought  I  to  tell  her 
father  ?  God  has  forgiven  me.  I  am  no  longer  that 
horrible  man.  It  would  only  distress  them  to  be  told. 
Why  should  I  drag  the  past  before  them  which  God 
has  taken  away  from  me  ?  It  is  dead.  It  has  ceased 
to  exist.  I  am  cleansed  of  all  my  sins.  I  can  serve 
God  with  a  quiet  mind.  No,  I  will  not  tell  them." 

"  Now,"  he  said,  folding  the  letter,  "  they  know." 

For  several  moments  he  stood  by  the  window 
dejected  and  without  the  power  of  action. 

Suddenly  it  came  to  him  that  this  dreadful 
revealment  must  have  plunged  the  noble  old  man 
into  most  utter  misery  and  sorrow. 

He  braced  himself,  and  exclaimed,  "  I  will  arise  and 
go  to  my  father." 

He  was  actuated  by  no  selfish  motive.  He  had  no 
thought  of  persuading  Rose  to  take  a  gentle  view  of 
his  sin.  No,  at  that  moment  he  was  his  highest  and 
purest.  He  thought  of  another's  pain.  All  he  desired 
was  to  say  to  that  old  man,  "  I  was  what  that  paper 
says,  but  you  have  saved  me." 

He  placed  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  went  out  from 
the  house. 

As  he  entered  the  garden  he  felt  strangely  exalted. 

He  had  gone  some  way  along  the  road  when  the 
thought  came,  "  Rose  will  shrink  from  me.  She  will 

487 


The  Shadow 

know   me  for  the  man   of  the   students'  ball."      He 
remembered  what  she  had  said  to  him. 

He  was  not  checked  in  his  purpose,  not  even 
saddened.  He  was  supported  by  some  powerful  feeling 
which  he  could  not  define.  Men  who  are  driven  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  some  secret  sin,  experience 
something  of  the  same  scorn  of  consequence  which 
lived  in  the  impulse  urging  Christopher  on  his  way. 

He  felt, "  I  must  say  to  my  father,  What  I  was,  by 
the  mercy  of  God,  I  am  no  longer  ;  you  have  saved  me." 
Beyond  that  confession  he  did  not  think. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  arrive  at  the 
parsonage  just  before  father  and  daughter  set  out  for 
the  evening  service.  He  wondered  if  he  should  wait 
till  it  was  over.  However,  he  kept  on  his  way.  It 
was  some  time  since  he  had  read  the  lessons  ;  now  he 
dared  not  even  put  his  hand  to  the  bell-rope  ;  but  he 
went  forward,  impelled  by  this  powerful  force  which  he 
could  not  define.  "  I  must  speak,"  he  said. 

As  he  drew  near  the  bend  in  the  road  which  would 
bring  the  village  before  him  he  quickened  his  pace. 
A  fresh  thought  had  entered  his  mind.  The  clergyman 
might  be  so  stricken  down  by  this  letter  as  to  feel 
himself  unable  to  take  the  service.  He  could  imagine 
the  agony  of  that  loving  heart.  Perhaps  his  confession 
of  repentance  might  give  the  old  man  courage  for  his 
work  in  the  church. 

So  he  hurried  his  paces. 

At  the  bend  of  the  road  he  checked  and  almost 
stopped  dead.  John  Kindred  was  approaching  him. 

At  the  sight  of  Christopher  the  old  man  extended 
his  arms,  as  though  to  say,  "  Come  to  me." 

488 


A  Great  Way  Off 

Christopher  went  forward,  his  eyes  full  of  tears. 

He  did  not  reflect  that  it  was  wonderful  to  see  this 
old  man,  whom  he  had  imagined  stricken  and  bowed, 
coming  eagerly  towards  him  with  untroubled  eyes  and 
opening  arms.  One  thought  and  only  one  was  in  his 
mind.  He  gave  it  utterance  directly  he  came  face  to 
face  with  his  father. 

He  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  When  he  was  yet  a  great 
way  off!" 

They  embraced.  Christopher  had  said  everything. 
The  old  man,  who  had  not  spoken,  in  his  embrace  said 
everything.  For  the  first  time  Christopher  really 
knew  the  sweetness  and  tenderness  of  the  forgiveness 
of  sins.  Perhaps  this  last  trial  had  been  necessary  to 
bring  home  to  his  mind,  in  a  manner  he  could  never 
forget,  the  fatherhood  of  love,  the  compassion  which 
lives  in  forgiveness. 

With  his  hands  on  Christopher's  arms,  looking  up 
into  the  young  man's  face,  which  was  bowed  lovingly 
towards  him,  the  old  saint  of  God  said  gently,  "  I  was 
coming  to  you  for  two  reasons,  Christopher.  First  to 
thank  you,  in  my  name  and  in  dear  Rose's,  for  saving 
her  from  that  wicked  place.  And  after  that — for  that 
noble  action  must  be  first  acknowledged — I  have  come 
to  ask  you  to  read  the  lessons  for  me  this  evening  in 
the  House  of  God." 

Afterwards,  with  Rose's  kiss  of  forgiveness  on  his 
brow,  and  such  joy  in  his  heart  as  he  had  never 
known,  Christopher  asked  the  old  minister  how  he 
knew  when  he  set  out  to  find  him  that  he  had  repented 
of  his  sin. 

489 


The  Shadow 

"  I  knew  you  were  trying  to  repent  of  something," 
he  said  ;  "  I  knew  it  from  the  first.  My  love  for  you 
told  me  that.  And  I  knew  that  knowledge  of  God's 
love  would  perfect  your  effort  in  His  own  good  time. 
I  was  coming  to  tell  you  so.  It  was  only  when  I  saw 
you  approaching  that  I  knew  God's  mercy  had  given 
you  peace." 

Christopher  said,  "  Do  you  know  that  it  is  you  who 
have  brought  me  to  this  knowledge  ?  You,  my  father, 
and  only  you." 

"  Tell  me  in  what  way  I  have  helped  you, 
Christopher  ? " 

Then  the  young  man  poured  out  his  full  heart  in 
love  and  gratitude. 

He  told  everything  the  soul  of  John  Kindred  had 
been  to  him,  but  most  he  dwelt  on  that  soul's  longing 
for  heaven  which  had  made  God's  love  so  real 
to  him. 

The  minister  took  him  into  his  arms.  "  It  is  the  law 
of  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  we  should  all  influence 
one  another  consciously  and  unconsciously,  for  good 
or  for  evil.  I  thank  Him,  I  bless  His  holy  name,  that 
I  should  be  used,  in  any  way,  to  help  your  noble, 
struggling  soul.  That  the  blessing  of  God  which  has 
fallen  upon  me  all  my  life,  should  fall  upon  you  from 
me,  and  without  my  knowledge,  calls  to  my  mind, 
as  though  I  heard  her  speaking  it  now  in  my  ear, 
a  simple  verse  often  on  the  lips  of  my  dear  wife,  who 
is  an  angel  in  heaven.  Learn  it  from  me,  Christopher, 
and  teach  it  to  others  when  I  stand  above  the  world 
in  the  Paradise  of  God." 

The  old  man's  eyes  beamed  with  spiritual  happiness. 
490 


A  Great  Way  Off 

He  held  Christopher's  hands  in  a  clasp  of  fatherly 
love,  and  he  repeated  this  verse  in  a  low  and  gentle 
voice : — 

"  This  learned  I  from  the  shadow  of  a  tree 
That  to  and  fro  did  sway  upon  a  wall, 
Our  shadow  selves,  our  influence,  may  fall 
Where  we  can  never  be." 


THE  END 


LONDON  I    PRINTED   BY   WILLIAM    CLOWES    AND    SONS,    LIMITED. 


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